The Crown of Souls
by Lady of Sherwood
Summary: The League of Darkness has stolen an ancient evil artifact and plans to use it to take over the world. So what's new about that? Join our heroes as they battle to save the world and come to grips with their own relationships.
1. Prologue & Chapter One

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Since I have been incapable of writing a short story since I was a small child, the following will be a multi-part long story. Somehow the plot bunnies keep growing and won't crawl out of my head until they have all been incorporated into the story (which makes for some awfully long sleepless nights!). This is also the first time since high school English that I have actually allowed someone else to read what I have written - very low self esteem here. I really would appreciate any feedback - good or bad (but please be gently with this rather fragile ego........)  
  
DISCLAIMER: I am not nor have I ever been a huge history buff so there will be many plot contrivances in this story. And I also couldn't find any decent maps of France or England from the 1800's so I may have included cities that hadn't existed yet (if anyone knows where I can find some, please let me know for future stories). Please bear with the inaccuracies and remember it's a sci-fi / fantasy piece, which means anything can happen, and usually does.  
  
CATEGORY: gen, action, drama, history  
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG, some violence to our heroes (sorry, Phileas)  
MAIN CHARACTERS: Phileas Fogg, Rebecca Fogg, Jules Verne, Passepartout, with guest appearances by Sir Jonathan Chattsworth, Queen Victoria, and Count Gregory  
  
AUTHOR: Joanne M. Sudekum  
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: lady_of_sherwood@yahoo.com  
  
* * * * * * * * *   
  
FORMER SECRET SERVICE AGENT KNIGHTED BY THE QUEEN  
  
Well, I bet I got your attention with that one didn't I? Well it's not every day that one of your closest friends makes the front-page headlines in the London Times.  
  
What was that? What friend? How did it happen?  
  
Boy, you are full of questions, aren't you. Well, I suppose I could be persuaded to tell the story. Or perhaps you could pick up the latest addition of the London Times.  
  
Huh? It's all sold out? Oh, yeah. That would be Passepartout's doing. He was so proud of his master that he had to buy up all the issues and send them off to family and friends. Can't blame the man, though, it was quite an adventure.  
  
What adventure you say?  
  
Well, if you've got the time to listen, I guess I have the time to tell it.  
  
Oh, by the way, my name is Jules Verne. I'm a student at the University in Paris. Or at least I was. It makes it rather hard to keep up with your studies when you're gallivanting around in a large dirigible trying to save the world from the League of Darkness.  
  
Dirigible? League of Darkness? Well, if you'll stop asking so many questions and let me tell you the story, you'll find out all about them.  
  
The dirigible is owned by a man named Phileas Fogg.. ,what?... .Oh, you've heard of him, have you. Yes, he used to belong to Her Majesty's Secret Service. One of her best agents actually until his brother was killed on assignment. After that, Fogg sort of fell apart. But he's doing much better now, thank you. Well, at least for the most part.  
  
I suppose it would help If I introduced you to the other main characters of the story before I begin. That way you won't have to stop me again with more questions.  
  
There's Rebecca Fogg. She's Fogg's cousin. Absolutely stunning woman.... uh, did I just say that? Oh well, I guess it's a good thing she wasn't around to hear that. Anyway, she's an agent of the Secret Service herself - doing very well and making a name for herself.  
  
And Passepartout. He would be Fogg's faithful valet. Now, there's a man that's all heart. Totally loyal to his master, need I say more?  
  
Okay, okay. Enough about us. Before I start in, though, I'll have to give you a little background. That way, I won't have to start at the very beginning and we can get into the action that much sooner. Sound good? Great.  
  
It really started with the theft of the Bloodstone of Healing. An ancient artifact that had once been a part of a much larger artifact known as the Crown of Souls.   
  
The Crown of Souls was made of the purest gold, laced with platinum highlights, and set with three bloodstones which rode high on its crest. In addition, many other gems of lesser value adorned its surface.  
  
But its beauty was beguiling, for the Crown of Souls was a very powerful and very evil relic. Among themselves, scholars of such ancient items, whisper stories of it's great evil and the many awful powers associated with it.  
  
In essence, the crown is able to absorb the attributes of a dying soul. In particular, the dying soul of a person the wearer kills or whose death he is ultimately responsible for. At the time of death, the person's soul would enter the crown and be assimilated into the wearer.  
  
The crown was originally forged in ancient Egypt for a powerful Pharaoh by the evil necromancer Daglan. In order to safeguard the secrets of the crown and make certain that none but he would ever wield it, the evil Pharaoh used his new prize to kill the magician. With the death and absorption of Daglan's power, the man would become invincible so long as he wore the crown. The Pharaoh then used the evil power of the crown to extend his evil empire into the neighboring lands.  
  
On the eve of his greatest battle, in which he was certain to crush the last bastion of goodness left in those dark and distant lands, his plans went astray. The evil warrior was riding along a dark back country trail with his entourage. As the night wore on, a heavy mist seemed to seep up from the very ground itself. About an hour later, his band was attacked by a small party of warriors from the land of Cush, the land he had been about to enter. Taken by surprise, the Pharaoh was thrown from his horse, and the crown upon his head rolled aside and was lost in the mist.  
  
The short battle which followed ended with only minor wounds for the Pharaoh and his troops. As his men cleared the corpses from the road and began to loot their fallen bodies, he set about finding his prized crown. After searching all night and finding nothing, he fell to his knees and cried out in frustration. "It seems to have vanished into the mists themselves!" How could he go into battle without his most secret weapon? But soon, his men had convinced him that it was not the magic within the crown that made him so powerful as it was his own natural wisdom and strength.  
  
And so, pride comes beforeth the fall.  
  
The next week in battle the evil Pharaoh fell and was killed. Upon seeing his death, the rest of his officers fled, leaving the army without direction and soon they were also defeated.  
  
What had happened to the crown?  
  
The attack by the small party of warriors the week before had simply been a diversion. The crown had not been lost in the mists as the Pharaoh had supposed. It had been snatched up by the only warrior not fighting in the battle. During the brief battle as his compatriots sacrificed their lives, he took the crown back to his lord where they hoped to dispose of the evil artifact.  
  
But the crown could not be destroyed by normal methods, try as the people of Cush did. Not even great magic succeeded. After several near fatal attempts it was decided that the crown should be disassembled and simply buried. The leaders of Cush had a special box made of pure gold assembled in which they laid the crown. Three smaller boxes were also constructed in which each of the bloodstones was placed. Then in a ceremony where they asked their gods to guard and protect it from the hands of evildoers, they buried the boxes in the Temple of Re, the god of the sun, where it laid undisturbed for many many years.....  
  
Until the year 1839 when the Temple of Re in Cush, now known as Nubia, was discovered and excavated by French Egyptologist Augutste Mariette. Although the temple held few riches for the excavator, he did uncover the golden box that held the Crown of Souls.  
  
Also in Mariette's party was a young englishman by the name of Marcus Baeuvin. Baeuvin, with a degree in ancient history from Oxford, also spoke many ancient languages. He was able to translate the warnings on the golden box and relay them to Mariette. Mariette, not being a very superstitious man, considered the warning a fanciful tale and ignored it. Baeuvin could not. Without telling Mariette of the power of the three bloodstones, he hid them amongst his possessions and replaced them with three similar stones he had found earlier.  
  
Since the dig in Nubia had been funded by the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, that is where the Crown and all the other items they had discovered were placed. Everything except the three bloodstones which Baeuvin took with him back to Europe, where several years later as curator of the British Museum, he was able to place one in the British Museum, the second in the Louvre in France and the third in the Museum in New York in the Americas. He figured with the crown in Egypt and the bloodstones placed in three different countries, he would avert the possibilities of anyone ever reassembling the artifact.  
  
So, tell me. Does this sound like something a group calling themselves the League of Darkness would be interested in obtaining?  
  
Well, Baeuvin, now Lord Marcus Baeuvin, thought so when a few months ago the bloodstone came up missing. Despite all his efforts to guard the artifact - like hiring only those he trusted to watch over it when he himself was unable, and placing an alarm on the shatterproof glass that surrounded it - one night it simply vanished.  
  
Baeuvin was now forced with a decision. He could say nothing, hoping the thief had no idea what he had stolen, or he could come clean about what he had done so many years earlier. Unfortunately the decision was made for him when it was discovered that the stones in the Louvre as well as New York had also been stolen. Baeuvin had no choice but to come clean.  
  
The night after the theft he gained an audience with Queen Victoria herself and told her what had happened. Most fortunate for all of us, Her Majesty agreed with Baeuvin's motivation if not his execution. Something had to be done. And there was only one person she trusted enough to take on the job.  
  
Most fortunate for us, for if it had been anyone else doing the requesting, I seriously doubt Fogg would have taken the job.  
  
Okay, enough background. I can tell you're ready to get to the action. Hope you enjoy the story.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
CHAPTER ONE  
In Which The Services of Phileas Fogg Are Requested  
  
  
"Chattsworth?" Just the sound of the man's name sent a shiver down Fogg's back. "Why in the bloody h-Il would I want to see Chattsworth?"  
  
Rebecca puffed out her cheeks in frustration. She had known this would not be easy. "Because he would very much like to see you." She said sweetly.  
  
Fogg turned to regard her, one eyebrow arched in a patronizing manner. "Oh, I highly doubt that, Rebecca. I believe he despises me more than I despise him. If that's at all possible."  
  
Oh, it's possible, she thought but instead said, "Oh alright, Phileas. It's not that he would like to see, it's that he needs to see you."  
  
This time the other brow went up. "Really?" he exclaimed, a smile catching at the corner of his lips. "Needs to see me? Well, that's positively intriguing."  
  
A full-blown smile broke out on Rebecca's face before she could stop it, and she playfully swatted her cousin's arm. "Oh, shut up, Phileas."  
  
The smile was catchy. Fogg grinned at his younger cousin as she walked over to the desk in the parlor of the Aurora and picked up the piece of paper she had dropped there a few moments earlier. She unfolded the note as she walked back.  
  
"See for yourself, Phil." She remarked as she handed it over to him. The note was short, sweet, and to the point. Very Chattsworth.   
  
  
Rebecca,   
  
Have a very delicate situation come up. Secrecy is imperative. Need Fogg.  
  
Chattsworth  
  
  
"A delicate situation?" Fogg repeated as he looked up.  
  
Rebecca shrugged. "You know as much as I do. The note came by messenger just an hour ago and I came here as soon as I could get away."  
  
Fogg refolded the paper very neatly and handed it back to her. "Well, I've nothing better to do tonight. Passepartout has the weekend off and it's really rather boring around here without him."   
  
"You're all heart, Phileas. Aren't you the least bit curious?"  
  
He shrugged nonchalantly. "I can't think of anything Chattsworth would have to say that would in the least bit interest me."  
  
Well at least I've got him to go, she mused. Wasn't nearly as difficult as I had expected...  
  
"I've a coach waiting outside." She replied.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"Have you noticed how busy it is around here today?" Fogg inquired as the carriage finally rolled to a stop outside the walled entrance to the building housing the British Secret Service.  
  
"Busy?" Rebecca repeated. She hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. There was the occasional carriage rumbling by and a few passersby walking along the cobbled streets, but nothing that wasn't normally there whenever she paid a visit to the office.  
  
He nodded his head out the window of the carriage. "The extra guards on the roof and as we passed, I was able to count at least one guard at the corner of each of the buildings within the city block."  
  
Rebecca sat up straight and leaned past her cousin to look out the window herself. She had to stare up at the roof for several moments before she was able to pick out the men that Phileas had so casual observed. And she had not noticed anyone along the street that would have made her pause to think they might be agents of the Secret Service.  
  
"No, I had not noticed." she admitted slowly, not wanting to, but realizing that Phileas already knew she hadn't. He always knew when she slipped up.  
  
"Ah," was his only response. He climbed out of the carriage then and turned to help her down. She couldn't help but notice the flick of his eyes as he scanned the area around them. The hand that held hers was stone hard, reflexes ready at a second's notice, but to a casual observer, Fogg would have seemed relaxed and completely unaware of his surroundings.  
  
"Do you think something is wrong?" she whispered, dropping her voice so low that he barely heard the question.   
  
"Wrong? No." he answered. "Expected. Yes."  
  
He held his arm out and she placed her hand demurely on his wrist. To anyone watching, they appeared a perfect gentleman and his consort as they walked at a casual yet determined pace through the gate and down the walk toward the door.  
  
Once inside they were promptly greeted and told that Sir Jonathan Chattsworth awaited their arrival in his office. As outside the building, Fogg noted the increased number of guards that seemed to be mulling about, appearing lacksidasical yet tensed in readiness. This time Rebecca was quick to notice as well. She caught her cousin's eye and nodded. He smiled in response. She was a quick learner.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Sir Jonathan Chattsworth was the head of the British Secret Service, yet one would have been hard pressed to guess so upon casual observation this evening. He had been pacing a hole in the Oriental rug covering the floor of his office for a good two hours now. Ever since the messenger had left the building with a message for Rebecca Fogg. Although he knew without question that she would come immediately upon receiving the note, he was not so sure she would be bringing her cousin. Phileas Fogg was a very hard man to pigeonhole. Just when you were certain you had his responses all figured out, he would go and do something totally unexpected. And that frightened Chattsworth more than anything else. A man that could not be predicted was a dangerous man indeed. Especially when that man was as full of passion as Fogg.  
  
Perhaps I should have told him at whose behest his presence was requested, he thought. Surely he would not decline that invitation. So Chattsworth berated himself for not having done that very thing. Of course, he had not done it in the first place because of his ill feelings towards the man. But as head of the Secret Service, he should have been above such feelings. D-mn that man for bringing out such things in me.  
  
A knock at the door brought him abruptly out of his revelry and he hurried over to his desk, sitting down behind it, before speaking. It would not do to find the head of the Secret Service pacing nervously up and down the carpet. "Who is it?" he called out, hoping his voice sounded calmer than he felt.  
  
"Rebecca Fogg." came the young woman's reply.  
  
Chattsworth swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. "Come in."  
  
The door opened a moment later and his prized best agent flowed into the room. He thought flowed, because Rebecca Fogg had a way of filling a room with her effervescent presence whenever she walked in. She, like her cousin, was a force that could not be ignored.  
  
Behind her, walked in Phileas Fogg and Chattsworth breathed a sigh of relief. He had not relished the idea of what would have happened had the young man not come.  
  
"Ah, Miss Fogg. Glad you came as soon as possible." He got up from the desk and walked around it to greet her properly.  
  
She inclined her head. "Sir Jonathan."  
  
Chattsworth then glanced up at Fogg. The younger man was regarding him with the intensity of a cat watching a caged bird. And that's exactly how he felt. "Fogg, good of you to come."  
  
A slight smile formed at the corner of Fogg's mouth. "How could I resist, Chattsworth, It's not very often that one is needed." The emphasis on the last word made the older man cringe. He had dreaded wording the invitation that way, but he could think of no other word that might appeal to the man's senses.  
  
'Well, yes...." Chattsworth started to stutter out. Fortunately he was saved further embarrassment by a familiar voice that sent both Foggs twirling around in their tracks.  
  
"Yes, Mister Fogg, your services are quite needed."  
  
For the first time in his life, Phileas Fogg was at a loss for words. Rebecca made a small noise in the back of her throat and curtsied deeply to hide her surprise. If the speaker had been anyone but the Queen of England, Chattsworth would have thoroughly enjoyed the flustered expression on Fogg's face. As it were, however, he felt the need to step in...and quickly.  
  
"Your Majesty, I present to you Phileas Fogg and his cousin Rebecca Fogg."  
  
Fogg recovered quickly and moved forward to take the Queen gloved hand in his. He bowed deeply at the waist and kissed the knuckles of that hand. "Please forgive my rudeness, Your Majesty," he said as he straightened to his full height, nearly dwarfing the poor woman. "I was unaware we had company."  
  
The woman reached out and gently patted the hand that still held hers "Normally I would have waited to be introduced, but I am afraid that time is not a luxury we have at the moment."  
  
She waved a small hand toward the chairs gathered around Chattsworth's desk "Let us have a seat first and Chattsworth with tell you what is required."  
  
Fogg escorted the Queen to the nearest chair and assisted her in sitting. He then in turn helped Rebecca, and finally took a seat for himself. Chattsworth waited until all three were seated before returning to his desk.  
  
"I am sure you have heard about the disappearance of the Bloodstone of Healing from the British Museum last night." he started.  
  
"Disappearance?" Fogg repeated. "I had assumed it was a robbery."  
  
"That is what we are letting the newspapers report, Fogg. But they have not been given the entire story." He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. "There is more to this theft than what meets the eyes." And for the next forty-five minutes he proceeded to tell them why.  
  
There was a few moments of silence after Chattsworth finished in which the two Foggs sat, digesting what had been said. Finally Phileas broke the silence.  
  
"Do you actually believe all this...this," he was wont to say nonsense, but he did not wish to offend the Queen if she did, so instead he just left it.  
  
"I'm not sure what I believe right now, Mister Fogg." The Queen replied. "But someone believes it is true. In the interest of national security I would know who that is and what they plan to do with the crown."   
  
"Well," Rebecca remarked, "It's an inside job. That much should be completely obvious. Has someone checked out the guard who was on duty?  
  
The Queen nodded. "Her name is Marion and she is Lord Marcus's daughter. She is above suspicion."  
  
Fogg sat back in his chair, elbows on the arms of the chair and his fingers steepled in front of him. It was a posture Rebecca knew well. She stopped herself from making a comment, deciding it was best to let her cousin think through what he was about to say instead of blurting - as she was always wont to do.  
  
"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty," he replied slowly, "No one is above suspicion. Not even Lord Marcus. We are, after all, a very self-centered race. Everyone - even someone as above reproach as Lord Marcus - has a price. It's just that not everyone's price is monetary."  
  
Chattsworth actually blanched. Rebecca's eyes threatened to pop out of her head, but she bit her lip to keep from making a remark. She knew if she kept quiet long enough, Phileas would make a point.  
  
The Queen, however, was intrigued. "And you. Mister Fogg, have you a price?"  
  
"I am only human, Your Majesty." A small smile crossed his face as he looked over at Chattsworth. "Despite what some people may think. It is based, of course, on your priorities."  
  
"Do go on, Mister Fogg. You have my interest peaked. And the honor of Lord Marcus at stake."  
  
"Let us say, for example, that Lord Marcus was to find out that his beloved wife was deathly ill. Her only hope of making a full recovery is to undergo a very expensive operation. He does not have the expenses to cover the operation, nor does he wish to impose on his closest friends. He does know, however, of a certain artifact in the Museum - where he is curator - that would fetch a hefty price. He fabricates an elaborate hoax to cover the theft, making it nearly impossible to discover the true culprit. He then sells the artifact to someone willing to pay what he needs. His wife is saved and no one is the wiser for who would dare accuse him of such villainy. His price you see, was not the money, but the life of his wife."  
  
"That is a very frightening thought, Mister Fogg." The Queen replied. "Then are we not to take a gentleman at his word? Are we to consider everyone suspect?"  
  
"This can be a very frightening world, Your Majesty. Even a true gentleman has a price, but he will let you know when his price has been paid for he will not ask you to take his word."  
  
"Ah," she smiled in understanding. 'Very enlightening, Mister Fogg. I am very glad to say that you are on the side of the British government. Such intelligence in an enemy would be too frightening to comprehend. I knew you would be the man for the job."  
  
Fogg pursed his lips for a moment, thinking. "What would you have me do with the stones once I find them?"  
  
The Queen was happy to note that he had not said 'If I found them.' "You are to return whatever you find and whoever you find to Sir Jonathan. We will then decide what needs to be done."  
  
Silence reined for the longest of moments as Fogg sat in his chair, fingers steepled before him again, lips pursed, and a faraway glaze to his eyes. Three sets of eyes watched him. And when he finally spoke, three sets of lungs finally breathed.  
  
"I'll need all the information we've secured so far." He replied, "And I'll need to speak with Lord Marcus and his daughter. As well as everyone else that had access to where the bloodstone was kept." He gazed intently at the Queen. "I'll also need complete license to do what I think needs to be done."  
  
She smiled. "If you can give me your word as a complete gentleman, Mister Fogg, that whatever you do will be in the best interest of England and the Queen."  
  
Fogg couldn't help but return the smile. "You have my word as a gentleman, Your Majesty,"  
  
"Than complete license you shall have." She glanced over at Chattsworth. "Give Mister Fogg whatever he requires, Sir Jonathan. That includes manpower. This is to be considered priority one with maximum privacy." Her eyes narrowed then as she saw the expression spreading across the man's face. She knew very well of the animosity between the Head of the Secret Service and the best agent it ever had. Their feud was no secret. "And, Sir Jonathan, he answers to know one save myself. Is that understood?"  
  
Rebecca shot her cousin a reprooful look. Now was not the time to gloat. Fogg raised an eyebrow as he caught her eye, but his face did not change expressions. He knew better than to provoke a fight in such unfair circumstances. There would be plenty of time for that after the job was done.  
  



	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO  
In Which the Suspects Are Questioned  
  
  
Lord Marcus Baeuvin watched with silent resignation as his young daughter Marion plopped down angrily in the seat across from his desk. She was growing weary of all the questioning, and truth to tell, so was he. Since the robbery at the museum two nights ago, he and his daughter had spent most of their time fielding questions from the police, the press, the Pinkerton Detective Agency, and today is was to be from the British Secret Service. The Queen had given him the heads up the day before that a few people from the agency would be stopping by to gather information of their own. Of course, all was to be on the QT, he wasn't even permitted to tell Marion. Not that she really cared at this moment. She just wanted it over with.  
  
"I don't even understand why you're so upset about the theft." she went on, her anger subsiding. "You hated that stone. I thought you'd be happy it went missing."  
  
Baeuvin folded his hands on the desk in front of him, regarding his daughter with a grim look. "I would be happy if the thing just simply disintegrated into a pile of rubble. But to know that it is now in the hands of some evil person, is simply unbearable."  
  
Marion rolled her blue eyes and sank further into the comfort of the overstuffed chair. Sometimes it embarrassed her that her father could be so obsessed with a simple artifact. He had told her long ago about the excavation at Nubia and what he had done. But she didn't believe in all that mumbo jumbo about the Crown of Souls or about it being evil. Objects were not evil, people were. To place the blame anywhere else was simply taking the responsibility away from where it belonged. She was a big believer in taking responsibility for your own actions.  
  
"Oh, very well, Father. I will continue to be a dutiful daughter and answer their questions. Although I don't see what they can possibly learn when all my answers have been 'I don't know'. Really, they need to ask more observant questions or they won't find anything."  
  
Baeuvin smiled, "Thank you, my dear. And I promise this will be the last round of questioning."  
  
He motioned then for someone standing beyond Marion's point of view to enter the office. She half turned in the chair just as a tall, dark and - need she say - handsome man walked into the office. Her spine immediately straightened, forcing her to sit up in the chair like the lady she desperately did not want to be. Although at this very moment, she was very glad she was. She could not remember ever laying eyes on a man more handsome than the one now shaking hands with her father. He was very tall, over six-foot if not more, slender though not scrawny, well dressed, with dark hair spiked with gray. But his most distinguishing trait she did not discover until he turned as her father made introductions.  
  
"Mister Fogg, may I present my daughter Marion. Marion, this is Mister Phileas Fogg."  
  
Marion found her breath catching in her chest as Phileas Fogg turned and regarded her with the most piercing green eyes. She automatically extended her arm and thought she said 'Pleased to meet you, Mister Fogg,' but she wasn't exactly sure what came out. He smiled and accepted the proffered hand and she thought he said, 'The pleasure is mine, Miss Baeuvin,' but again she wasn't sure. The blood was pounding so loudly in her ears, that she couldn't hear much of anything.  
  
Oh, get a grip on yourself, girl! she admonished herself as she finally caught her breath and everything started to return to normal. He's just a man. Yes, he's very good-looking. But he's just a man. You'll look the fool if you continue to stare at him that way!  
  
"Please feel free to use my office, Mr. Fogg." The sound of her father's voice caused Fogg to turn away, breaking the hold his eyes held sway over her and she felt herself sag back into the softness of the chair, "You will have the privacy you need and no one will interrupt you. If you need anything, Marion knows where everything is kept."  
  
Fogg inclined his head as her father rose to his feet. "Thank you very much, Lord Marcus. I shouldn't take up too much of your lovely daughter's time. There are some empty spaces in the report that just need clarification."  
  
Marion felt her face flush at the description, immensely happy that neither man was looking her way. She watched her father out the door and as he closed it behind him she felt her heart beat a little faster in her chest. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves she finally turned her head to look at Phileas Fogg.  
  
Fogg, perched on the corner of the desk, was regarding her again with those piercing eyes. She had the distinct feeling that if she had been guilty of the theft, she would have confessed right then and there. Instinctively she swallowed hard and tried her best smile. "There are empty spaces in the report?" she inquired. "I answered all the questions to the best of my knowledge."  
  
He nodded. 'Yes, you did. The problem was more with the questions asked not the answers given."  
  
A smirk crossed her lips. Hadn't she just said the same thing to her father not more than ten minutes earlier? At least this time they sent someone not only with looks but brains as well. "You have other questions then?"  
  
"No. I was hoping you could just tell me in your own words what happened that night and possibly the days surrounding the theft."  
  
"Does that include suppositions of my own?"  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "You have your own suspects?"  
  
She shrugged. "I know I didn't do it. But I also know that I'm the prime suspect. So in order to prove my innocence, I figured I'd help the police out with other suspects."  
  
A small smile crossed his lips. "Why don't we stick with the facts first. If I need help after that, we'll discuss your opinions."  
  
Well, that was more than the other detectives had given her. They wouldn't even let her speak other than  
to answer their questions. But that had possibly been because she had called them stupid questions. Open mouth, insert foot, she had chided herself. She would not make that same mistake this time. Although she was certain Mister Phileas Fogg was not an asker of stupid questions.  
  
"Very well." she replied. That's when she noticed he hadn't anything to write on or with. "Aren't you going to write all this down?"  
  
"No need. I'll remember exactly what you say."  
  
It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "I'm impressed, Mister Fogg. Perhaps if they had sent you in the first place, this mystery would have already been solved."  
  
Again that small smile. "Perhaps."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Phileas Fogg had been true to his word. Half an hour after he had walked into her life, he walked back out. With a disappointed sigh she watched as he walked out of the office and down the hallway to where her father stood speaking with a young woman Marion had never seen. She was a very beautiful woman with long auburn tresses that spiraled down her back and shoulders. Marion felt a tinge of jealously tug at her heart as the woman turned and graced Fogg with an enchanting smile.  
  
"Ah, Rebecca," Fogg greeted her warmly.  
  
So they knew each other. At first she had hoped they were just co-workers, working this case together, but they were standing far too close and familiar for that. No, she must be his wife. A man of such beauty and stature deserved a woman of the same beauty and stature. Oh, well. She had really stood no chance with such a man anyway. Still, daydreaming was not such a bad thing.  
  
With another sigh of resignation and one last look down the hallway where her father was now leading the couple into the museum, Marion slipped out of the office and headed toward the back of the building. Phileas Fogg had not quite agreed with her own assumptions of the guilty party, so she was bound and determined to prove them on her own.  
  
"So how did the inquisition go?"  
  
Marion stopped short and turned to find Roland Jackelton, her father's faithful assistant, standing in the doorway of the laboratory where he and her father cleaned and examined new acquisitions to the museum.  
  
She shrugged. "He had a better handle on the examination then those other fops from the night before," she answered.  
  
Jackelton nodded his agreement. "Aye. The one that questioned me was very good. Not to mention very beautiful. I cannot recall ever seeing a lovelier vision, let alone being questioned by one. Although I have no idea what she could deduce by my answers. I wasn't even here that night."  
  
"Same here. But figuring out what happened is not for us to decide. It's their job to prove someone guilty." She had no intentions of sharing her suspicions with her main suspect. She only hoped her suspicious nature didn't show through. "I must be going now, Roland. Tell my father I went home for the day. I'll be back in time for my shift tonight."  
  
Jackelton inclined his head then turned and resumed his business inside the office. Marion took a deep breath and blew it out then resumed her own course. She had to learn to control her tongue or she would blow the whole thing. It would not be easy, but she was bound and determined. She was not about to take the fall for the theft, nor was she going to allow it to tarnish her father's impeccable reputation.  
  
She hadn't been entirely truthful with Roland, although she did have plans to go home for a while. She just didn't plan on coming back for the night shift. Mason - the other night guard - owed her plenty and she was sure she could persuade him to take her shift tonight. Because tonight she planned on finding out if her suspicions about the man were correct. She wasn't exactly certain why she thought he would be making his move tonight, but with the added incentive brought on by the questioning today, she just knew. Roland worked until seven o'clock this evening. She would return then.  
  
Pushing the back door open, she stepped out into the bright daylight of afternoon and made her way across town for home.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"Not very imposing," Phileas Fogg commented as Baeuvin was showing him and Rebecca where the artifact had been displayed. It was a simple glass case set upon a wooden pedestal among other similar pedestals in a row running up and down the corridor of the museum.  
  
"It was not meant to be, Mister Fogg," Baeuvin explained. "The museum does not wish for the general public to see anything but that which is displayed. The security system is all hidden under the drop cloths and inside the pedestals."  
  
"How does it work?" Rebecca inquired.  
  
Baeuvin lifted the empty glass case from the pedestal with one hand and the black velvet drop cloth with the other to reveal the wooden pedestal beneath. The surface of the pedestal was perhaps an inch wider in circumference then the glass case itself, and was square in shape. In the very center of the surface a large circle had been cut out of the wood and replaced with a steel plate.  
  
"That is what is called a pressure plate," the older man replied. "Each plate in each pedestal is calibrated to the weight of each piece that is placed upon it. Therefore if the pressure placed upon it increases or decreases by just a fraction of an ounce, an alarm is sounded."  
  
"And you are certain that it was working properly the night of the theft?" Fogg inquired.  
  
"Positive, Mister Fogg. The moment the case was disturbed the alarm sounded, alerting Marion to the theft. And the instant the alarm sounded the security system for the building was activated, effectively sealing all means of exiting the Museum."  
  
Fogg raised an eyebrow in intrigue. "Really? How is that done?"  
  
Baeuvin directed their attention back towards the double set of doors they had used to gain access to the museum. "Once the alarm is sounded, a large sheet of iron drops down from the ceiling in front of every set of doors, blocking the exit. Even after the alarm has been silenced, it takes two sets of keys to unlock the mechanism that pulls the sheets of iron back into place. One set the guard carries, the other set only I have access to."  
  
"May I take a look?" Rebecca asked.  
  
Baeuvin nodded and escorted her back towards the doors. Fogg remained before the pedestal, arms crossed, and a pensive expression on his face. Rebecca knew better then to disturb her cousin when he was in such deep thought.  
  
The door was just as Baeuvin had described. Just inside the door, in the ceiling an inch from the top, a slit, six-inches wide, ran the entire width of the door. She also found one keyhole on each side of the door jamb.  
  
"What are you're regular security measures?" she inquired. "I mean besides the guard inside."  
  
"All the doors are locked of course. And each set of doors around the entire building has a heavyweight wrought-iron gate that is pulled across it each night. Then the doors which lead from the lobby to the exhibit area and these doors here which lead from the offices and laboratories to the exhibit area also have wrought iron gates. Only I have keys to these doors, which I lock once the guard is inside and I am ready to leave for the night. And of course each and every door has an alarm."  
  
Rebecca was noticeably impressed. "And were all the doors still locked when you were informed of the theft?"  
  
Baeuvin nodded. "Each one. On the outside as well as the inside. This is what makes the theft so mysterious."  
  
"The report says you arrived here shortly after the police were alerted. You opened only this door. So if the thief were to escape, he would have to come through this way. And the only one who came out was your daughter."  
  
"Yes, Miss Fogg." Baeuvin knew exactly where her line of questioning was going. "I assure you that the police searched her completely before they allowed her through. And they searched the museum completely as well. The artifact was nowhere to be seen and neither was the thief. Both vanished into thin air."  
  
"There is no other way inside the museum but the doors? No windows?"  
  
"No windows except those in the lobby and the offices. Sunlight can be very destructive to ancient artifacts, Miss Fogg."  
  
"You say the museum was search completely." Came Fogg's voice from where he still stood before the pedestal.  
  
"Completely, Mister Fogg. It took all night and most of the next morning."  
  
Fogg turned around then to look at the displays across the aisle from the pedestals. This is where the larger cases stood, containing statuary and the like. This being the Egyptian collection, there were also several sarcophagi standing without cases but on short pedestals an inch or two off the ground.   
  
"Are there pressure plates under the sarcophagi as well?"  
  
Baeuvin's face scrunched in confusion. "Why no. Certainly someone walking out with one of them would be noticed, Mister Fogg."  
  
"Off course, Lord Marcus." Fogg moved closer to one of the sarcophagi and stooped down to examine the pedestal. "I was not alluding to that. I was merely wondering if they were alarmed in the same way as the smaller cases."  
  
Rebecca wandered back to where her cousin stooped, continuing to examine each of the pedestals in turn. Baeuvin had no choice but to follow, his curiosity peeked as well. "No, we have found no need to go to such extreme lengths with the larger pieces."  
  
"Ah," Fogg replied, which could have meant anything. He went on to the fourth sarcophagi pedestal and found what he sought almost immediately. Since these pedestals were not covered with velvet drop cloths, they were made of soft marble instead of wood. And etched into the surface of this particular pedestal were several deep scratches. And each scratch contained several slivers of wood. "Ah," he said again and this time Rebecca knew he had come upon something.  
  
"What is it, Phileas?" she asked.  
  
Fogg glanced up at Baeuvin before answering her question. "How often are these sarcophagi opened?"  
  
Another confused look flashed across the older man's face. "Never, Mister Fogg. Exposure to air starts the deterioration process. We found this out due to trial and error in the earlier days of the museum. Until we find a way to keep them open for display without decaying, they must remain closed."  
  
Fogg nodded. "So there would be no need to open this one."  
  
"None at all."  
  
"Phileas?" Rebecca asked again, placing her hand upon her cousin's shoulder.  
  
"This one has been opened. And while it was on this pedestal."  
  
"Impossible!" Baeuvin exclaimed.  
  
Fogg ran his fingers along the deep scratches, drawing both Rebecca's and Baeuvin's eyes to them. Then he gingerly felt under the lid of the sarcophagi near the opening. There he found a stiff wooden post that corresponded with each scratch.  
  
"These scratches in the surface of the pedestal were made when the lid was dragged opened." He replied. "And made deeper when it was closed. Twice each way I would say."  
  
Rebecca's grip on his shoulder tightened. "You're not saying what I think you are, are you, Phil?"  
  
He nodded as he rose to his feet. "Lord Marcus, I believe our thief hid himself inside this sarcophagus until the museum closed and your daughter was in some other part of the building. Then he crept out, stole the artifact, then returned to the sarcophagi where he remained most probably until the next day when he could slip out without the possibility of being seen."  
  
"Again, Mister Fogg, I say that is impossible. These sarcophagi are sealed after the mummies have been removed to preserve the air-tightness of their construction."  
  
Fogg felt along the lid of the sarcophagus until he found the edge of the lip and then he tugged slightly on it until a soft whoosh filled the room and the lid popped open. Rebecca gasped and a strangled gargle escaped Baeuvin's throat. Fogg pulled the lid toward him until a space wide enough for an average size man to squeeze through was made. He noted with satisfaction the grate of the lid as it scraped across the soft marble pedestal. All three moved around to the side of the sarcophagi and peered inside.  
  
Baeuvin cursed softly and moved closer to examine the seal that should have kept the lid from being removed. As he had feared, the seal had been neatly melted away.  
  
"How long would it take to melt away the seal?" Rebecca inquired as she took the chance to examine it as well.  
  
"With heat, like you would a candle, several days constantly applied. And I can assure you that if someone had been standing here for several days holding a candle to the seal, it would have been noticed." The old man drew her attention to the wood on the edge of both the lid and the casket. "See here where the wood looks as if it, too, had been melted?"  
  
Rebecca moved in closer. She nodded. "It is melted, not burned, as it would be if a flame had been applied to it."  
  
"Exactly. This indicates that the seal was eaten away by an acid of some sort."  
  
Fogg raised an eyebrow. "And could this acid be found here in the museum somewhere?"  
  
Baeuvin sighed and nodded. He had been hoping against hope that the theft had not been an inside job. But now, all evidence seemed to point to exactly that. "Yes. Yes, it can be. In any of the laboratories."  
  
"Who has access to the laboratories?"  
  
"Anyone who has access to the offices."  
  
Fogg pursed his lips for a moment before speaking. "An acid strong enough to eat away the seal and parts of the sarcophagus would have to be quite acidic, wouldn't it?" Baeuvin nodded. "So I would be safe in saying that whoever did it, knew what they were doing or there would be evidence of the acid on the base as well as on the floor beneath."  
  
Again Baeuvin nodded. "And to answer your unasked question, Mister Fogg. That would narrow your suspects down to myself, my assistant Roland Jackelton, and my daughter Marion."  
  
  



	3. Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE  
In Which Jules Comes To The Rescue  
  
  
To the untrained eye, the Paris garret was a nice, cozy little place to live. Romantic one could call it. That is if you were a starving artist or a romanticist at heart. To the trained eye, it was cramped, musty, and a bit disorganized. To Passepartout, it was the home of his good friend Jules Verne, which made it cramped, musty, and a cozy little place to live.  
  
Jules Verne, however, was not happy with it at all, which explained why he spent half his time on the Aurora. He spent the other half on the Aurora because he simply adored hanging out with Phileas Fogg and Passepartout, and because he simply adored Rebecca Fogg. If there had been a fourth bedroom on the dirigible, he would have asked Fogg if he could move in permanently. But there wasn't. As it was, whenever they all traveled together, he slept on the couch in the parlor. Which, if one stopped to think seriously about it, was more comfortable than the mattress that was currently masquerading as a bed in the garret.   
  
At this exact moment in time, Passepartout was sitting on that mattress thinking that very same thing. He had been in that position for a good twenty minutes while waiting for Verne to finish getting ready for their sojourn into the Paris nightlife, and his backside was beginning to protest the exposed spring it had been doing battle with. Of course he had tried to slide down the mattress a bit to another spot, but the spring seemed to follow him wherever he moved. It was a very determined little piece of metal coil. Finally in exasperation and more than a little pain he got up and started to wander around the tiny garret. As he stood up, he watched with quiet astonishment as the coil shot up through the mattress and waved victoriously in his direction.  
  
Passepartout fought the urge to grab that mattress and throw it out the open window. Although he was certain that Jules would not have minded in the least.  
  
Instead he took to examining the newest set of drawings Verne had added to the growing number pinned to the garret wall. The young man's intellect greatly intrigue the valet and he was always eager to see what latest invention his brain had come up with. Together the two of them had actually been able to construct more than a handful of them successfully.  
  
This particular drawing was exceptionally intriguing.  
  
The paper had been slid sideways so that it was longer in width than height. It was a drawing of some kind of vehicle, made of metal, perhaps iron, more probably steel. It was cylindrical in shape, almost like a cigar. Passepartout couldn't help but think it resembled greatly the giant mole the League of Darkness had constructed in their attempts to murder the Queen of England. He had to suppress a shudder as he recalled what happened with that particular invention. Although Verne had meant for the machine to be used in an agricultural mode, the League had constructed it as a death machine. That adventure had almost been the end of Jules Verne...most probably at the hands of Phileas Fogg.  
  
"It's a submergible." Verne's voice explained from the direction of the bathroom where he had been holed up for the past twenty minutes.  
  
"It resembling the mole, no?"   
  
"Yes," Verne moved up behind his friend, ever eager to explain his latest brain child to someone who could truly understand it. "Yes, it does. But instead of drilling through the earth, this one will travel through the open seas."  
  
Passepartout was astounded and it should on his face. "Under the water?"  
  
"Exactly. Instead of traveling on top of the water where ships are subject to all kinds of extreme weather This one will travel beneath the waves where it is relatively calm, even in a rough storm, depending on how far down you wish to dive."  
  
"But how you be breathing?"  
  
Verne smiled. "You would take the air down with you in tanks. Of course your submersion would depend upon how much air you can carry or how many passengers you have on board."  
  
"How is floating? Metal is very heavy. She would be sinking."  
  
"Again, the air on board. The air pressure inside the vehicle would cause it to be buoyant. To rise back up to the surface, you would release the ballast and the ship would rise to the top. I haven't got all the details ironed out yet. I've been working more on the outside design while I've been studying ballast and air pressure."  
  
Passepartout nodded as he returned his gaze to the drawing. "Passepartout would very much like to help Jules on this one."  
  
Verne clamped him on the shoulder. "I had hoped you would say that, Passepartout. I really do need your input on some engineering aspects."  
  
This greatly pleased the older Frenchman. While Mister Fogg simply tolerated most of his inventions aboard the Aurora, Verne was always anxious to see them. "Perhaps we spend next day working?"  
  
"That would be good. But tonight we forget such things and enjoy this beautiful Paris evening. Come, Passepartout, I tell you again. You will simply enjoy this place immensely. It has a lot of...." he searched for the right word, but had to settle for, "character."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Character would not have been the particular word Passepartout would have chosen to describe the place Verne introduced him to that evening. Or perhaps it was the best word to describe it. It had been the exact word Mister Fogg had used to describe Verne's garret and somehow this place reminded the French valet of that same place. It was rather small, cramped, smoky, and very noisy. And the walls were covered with artistic drawings.  
  
Verne had called it a haven for the artistically challenged. It was the newest spot in the poorer section of Paris, a place where the artists of the city could meet and trade ideas. A place where you could admire and be admired. See and be seen.  
  
One side of the building was taken up by the long bar where tall chairs were positioned for those who did not want or could not sit at one of the many tables littering the main floor. Along the wall opposite the bar was a raised platform, about six feet long and just as wide. This is where the artists were encouraged to step up and perform. As Verne ushered Passepartout inside, a young woman was just about to take the "stage".  
  
"Good. We haven't missed her," Verne muttered under his breath.  
  
Still, Passepartout heard him and found his attention being drawn back to the stage.  
  
She was a very pretty little thing. Petite but too thin for the Frenchmen's taste. Her long hair was the color of chocolate and cascaded in little ringlets over her shoulder. She had a tendency to throw it back over her shoulder as she sang. Her voice was melodic and had a way of lulling the listener. A few moments after she began, the club went silent. Every patron was hanging on her every word.  
  
"Isn't she exquisite?" Verne breathed as she finished her song to the rounding applause of the audience.   
  
"Yes." Passepartout had to agree. "She has a name?"  
  
"Monique." Verne could not take his eyes off the girl as she stepped off the stage and made her way back to the bar. "Is that not the most beautiful name you've ever heard, Passepartout?"  
  
"Very beautiful indeed, Master Jules. You liking this Monique very much?"  
  
"I think so, Passepartout. I think so." He turned away then as Monique was greeted by a young man at the bar.  
  
Passepartout saw the exchange as well as the look on Verne's face. "Oh, but she be liking someone else."  
  
Verne sighed and nodded. "Claude." was all he said.  
  
Passepartout hailed down a passing waiter and ordered a mug for the table. He knew he had to change the subject or the night would be a total waste as Verne moped for the unrequited affection.  
  
"You have heard of the robbery at the Louvre?" he inquired.  
  
The question shook Verne out of his revelry, as Passepartout knew it would. "You mean the bloodstone?"  
  
"Yes, just like London. There was such a theft at the British Museum as well two nights before I leaving for Paris."  
  
"Of another bloodstone?"  
  
"Bloodstone of Healing."  
  
"The one in the Louvre was called the Bloodstone of Protection." Verne was intrigued. "Could they be related?"  
  
Passepartout shrugged his shoulders. "Me not knowing. Both from Egypt."  
  
"I read that Bloostones were usually connected to some form of artifact, like a scepter or a crown, or a weapon used by Egyptian royalty. But the one here is on its own."  
  
"The one in England as well."  
  
"So where are the artifacts....?"  
  
He was interrupted by a loud altercation taking place at the bar. Both men turned as one to find a crowd of people doing likewise.  
  
"You imbecile!" Monique was heard shouting just seconds before the sound of skin slapping skin filled the air.   
  
"But, mon cherie!" Claude exclaimed. "I did it for us."  
  
"Hah!" Monique laughed. "You did it for you. What do I need with such money?"  
  
With that the crowd parted slightly and Monique stomped through, heading in an angry huff towards the front door of the tavern. Claude ran after her, catching her by the arm just outside the doorway. She jerked her arm, but he held on fast.  
  
"You are hurting me!" she exclaimed. To which Jules Verne found himself jumping up out of his seat and rushing to her rescue. In a quandary, Passepartout jumped to his and followed.  
  
With the hour being as late as it was, the streets in this part of town were almost void of life. Those who lived on this side of the city knew better than to be on the streets after dark. The artists had very little to fear from petty thieves as they had no money or possessions valuable enough to steal. As Verne and Passepartout ran out into the street, they were the only four people in sight.  
  
Verne instinctively grabbed Claude's wrist, the one that was holding a struggling Monique. "The young lady says you are hurting her," he exclaimed in what he hoped was a demanding voice. Somehow it didn't sound quite as intimidating as Fogg's did when he was angry.  
  
Claude, as expected, was not in the least bit intimidated. Without a word he released his hold on Monique and turned on Verne. With his free hand fisted he pulled back and punched the young writer square in the face. Verne went flying backwards into Passepartout who went flying backwards into the wall. Monique took off running down the street.  
  
"Monique!" Claude shouted and ran off after her.  
  
Verne, his pride hurting more than his jaw, scrambled up to his feet and went in pursuit. If he had learned anything from Fogg during their association, it was how to protect and avenge one's honor. Of course, Phileas Fogg would have seen that fist coming and been able to block it with something other than his face.  
  
Poor Passepartout had a more difficult time getting back up to his feet. He had hit the wall rather hard with his left shoulder, which was sure to cause a bruise later. But that would have to wait. He knew he could not afford to let Verne confront this Claude on his own. Despite his enthusiastic bravado, Verne was not a fighter, and the other man was sure to cause some serious injury. The valet staggered upward and onward in the direction he had seen Verne go.  
  
Monique ran a race through the deserted streets of Paris's lower eastside, until Verne was sure he had lost her. Claude was no where to be seen either. And all he could hear was Passepartout's labored breathing as the man struggled to keep up. He stopped at the intersection of two more alleys and waited for the valet to catch up.  
  
"I think we lost them." He exclaimed angrily.  
  
Passepartout collapsed against the wall, breathing hard. He was most certainly not used to this kind of exertion. "It was just a lover's quarrel, Master Jules...." He wheezed out.  
  
Verne kicked at a rather large loose stone on the street and let out a soft curse. The pair could be anywhere by now and he made himself look such a fool in Monique's eyes. What an idiot you are, Jules Verne, he thought. Now he stood even less of a chance in catching the young lady's eye.  
  
"We go back now..." Passepartout replied. "Get good and drunk. Forget this even happ..."  
  
Just then a scream broke through the stillness of the night.  
  
Verne's eyes went wide. "That's Monique!" And before Passepartout could stop him, the younger man was off again.  
  
The scream had come from down the alley somewhere off to Verne's left and that's the direction he headed. He had no idea how he was going to find Monique, or what he was going to do once he did. Fortune smiled on him, though, for she found him rather than the other way around. Just as he was about to give up in frustration she came running around a corner and smacked right into him. The force of her momentum sent them both sprawling.  
  
"Master Jules!" Passepartout came huffing up to the pair just as they were trying to disengage themselves from each other. "Master Jules, you are all right?"  
  
"I'm fine, Passepartout. Help her up."  
  
Passepartout bent over and gently grabbed Monique by the arms, pulling her up to her feet. He could feel her trembling beneath his grip and continued to hold her for fear she would faint if he let go. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer. "We must leave now!" she hissed. "For they will find us surely."  
  
"Who will be finding us?" he inquired.  
  
"They." She glanced back down the alley, saw shadows in the lamplight from the street, coming closer. She looked back at Passepartout. "They will kill us like they killed poor Claude."  
  
Verne turned his head and saw a flicker of movement as well. He quickly jumped to his feet and pulled both Monique and Passepartout into a nearby doorway. Placing a finger to his lips he motioned for both to be quiet and very still. A few moments later several figures passed by. If it had not been for their determined pace, they would most certainly have seen the three pressed in the doorway. After a few minutes of silence, Monique let out a sigh and fell into Passpartout's arms.  
  
"Miss Monique." He whispered, shaking her back to wakefulness. "You must be telling us what happening."  
  
Monique's gaze flashed between the two men who had possibly just saved her life until they finally settled on Verne, a face she recognized from the club. "They wanted the stone," she explained. "The one he had stolen for them....from the museum...." Her face scrunched up as tears welled in her eyes. "They were supposed to pay him a lot of money for it but instead they killed him...."  
  
Verne was torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to follow Claude's killers. He gently touched the girl's arm. "Who, Monique. Who are they?"  
  
"I do not know. I did not know about the theft until this evening. He said he had done it for us. So that we would have enough money for me to sing professionally. He works at the museum so it was easy for him to steal the stone."  
  
Verne glanced up at Passepartout. "We have to follow them. Find out who it is."  
  
That was not exactly what the valet wanted to do, but he knew it was what they had to do.   
  
Monique tightened her grip on Passepartout's label and pulled him uncomfortably close. "You cannot go. They will kill you, too."  
  
"Not if we be sneaking."   
  
Verne reached out and gently pried the girl's hands off Passepartout's jacket and pulled her out of the doorway. "We'll only follow them, Monique. You must find a policeman and tell him what has happened."  
  
"You will only follow them?" she repeated softly, genuinely concerned for their welfare.  
  
Verne nodded. "Now go."  
  
He gave her a small shove in the direction they had come from, toward the main street where she was sure to bump into one of the nightguards. She stumbled on, glancing back only once, but by that time the two had already disappeared into the night.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"I not so sure this a very good idea, Master Jules." Passepartout remarked as he and Verne picked there way through the back alleys of Paris's slums. They had come across the five men that had attacked Claude shortly after leaving Monique. They seemed unconcerned about anyone following them and kept a leisure pace.  
  
It appeared quite obvious to both Verne and Passepartout that the men they were following had no idea they were being followed. They made no attempts to speak quietly, nor did they ever double back at any point to confuse their tracks. Once or twice the pair had lost sight of the men, but eventually the men would betray their position with a word or a sound.  
  
After passing through endless back alleys and poorly lit streets, Verne was positive they were heading toward the rail station. In a voice barely above a whisper, he conveyed his assumption to Passepartout.  
  
"We are following?" Passepartout inquired.  
  
"I see no other choice, Passepartout. There are five of them and only two of us so I highly doubt we could take the stone by force. Even if we did, we wouldn't know why it was taken. I think if we follow them, we'll find that out and maybe where the stone stolen from the British Museum is too."   
  
The French valet turned to glance at him, a small smirk on his face. "I think, perhaps, Mister Fogg's curiosity rubbing off on you, Master Jules."  
  
Verne couldn't help but chuckle. He was right. If this had happened a year ago, he would have gone off with Monique to find a nightguard and left the murder and theft in the hands of the police. He simply could not have imagined running off after the culprits pretty much on his own. That alternative would never have entered his mind.  
  
"I think, perhaps, you are right, Passepartout."  
  
Leaving the back alleys behind the group finally broke out on a main street just south of the Rail Station. At this time of night, the streets of Paris were not heavily populated, but not entirely deserted either. Parisians enjoying the city night life could be seen exiting carriages while those just leaving work were heading home. A great potion of these people could be seen heading for the rail where a train would take them home to the outlying towns. It was with this last group that Verne and Passepartout merged.  
  
"Can you see them?" Verne asked as he tried desperately to see around all the taller heads bobbing along ahead of him.  
  
"Yes. There are heading to the rail station."  
  
Verne let Passepartout lead him through the crowd to the ticket office. While the valet slipped inside behind one of the felons to purchase two tickets, Verne stayed outside where he could keep an eye on the other four.  
  
"They are going to Calais." Passepartout reported when he emerged a few moments later. "The train arrives in twenty minutes."  
  
"All five?" Verne had hoped the number would dwindle to a more manageable number just in case they had to take the stone by force.  
  
"Yes, all five."  
  
"They must be planning on taking the ferry to Dover," Verne mused. "Probably to meet up with whoever stole the bloodstone from the British Museum."  
  
"We can contact Mister Fogg and Miss Rebecca, then?" Passepartout inquired hopefully.  
  
Verne grinned and put his arm around his friend's shoulders. "Oh, Passepartout, I think we can handle this one on our own."  



	4. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR  
In Which the Foggs Get in Over Their Heads  
  
  
Big Ben was just striking seven o'clock when the back door to the museum opened and Roland Jackleton emerged.  
  
"Well, at least he's punctual," Marion mused aloud from her perch across the street. She had picked the spot because it was hidden from prying eyes, yet she could see the back door to the museum perfectly without being seen herself.  
  
Jackelton had changed out of the clothes he had been wearing earlier which meant he did not plan on going home. And in his hand he carried a travel bag. A satisfied smile crossed her face. This boded well for her assumptions that tonight was the night.  
  
"Okay, Mr. Jackelton," She breathed nervously, "let's see what would make you give up a promising career at the British Museum for a life of crime."  
  
Jackelton, strode out to the main street, where he stopped for a moment, looking about him. When he seemed satisfied that no one was watching, he turned north and merged in with the crowd of people heading that way.   
  
Marion waited until he was passed her before sliding down off the wall and plopping gracefully onto the grassy mound below. She meticulously straightened out the sleeves of her riding jacket and smoothed the wrinkles from the pants, grinning at her own cunning. She was going to solve this mystery and restore her father's good name - despite what Phileas Fogg had told her earlier that day. Jackelton was the culprit and she was going to prove it. Besides, what trouble could she get in following the man around town?  
  
All caught up in her own self assurances, she didn't notice the shadow that detached itself from the wall just a few feet beyond where she had been sitting. It stayed, hidden behind the trees surrounding the wall, until she walked passed, and then it, too, stepped out onto the streets and headed north.  
  
This was going to be easier than she had thought.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Of course, Marion Baeuvin would not have thought so had she seen the dark shadow that watched her from further on down the wall. This dark shadow had been following her for the better part of the late afternoon. Had watched as she roamed anxiously around the house waiting for the hour to draw closer, even watched with slight amusement as she ransacked her closet looking for the proper attire.  
  
"So why would she be following Jackelton?" Rebecca mused to herself as she watched the young girl pass by. "Unless of course Phileas was right and you are innocent." A supposition she did like very much. She hated it when Phileas was right and she was wrong. She had been so positive that Marion Baeuvin was the culprit. She had the perfect motive and the perfect opportunity.  
But now Rebecca was not so sure.  
  
"Thank g-d I did not reveal my theory to Phileas." She mumbled, sliding down off the wall. "He would never let me live this one down."  
  
She turned and flowed with the crowd as it made it's way down the street, keeping both Marion Baeuvin and Roland Jackelton in sight.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
The sun was just beginning to settle over the horizon ushering the beginning of dusk when Jackelton veered off the main street and headed west and away from the civilized parts of the city. The houses began to take on a drabbier appearance, as upper class living took the shape of middle class living took the shape of lower class living. And soon living ceased all together as it became the slums.   
  
For the first time, Marion actually halted as fear gripped at her heart. She had never been this far away from the city before. Had never seen living conditions so appalling before. Of course, she had read that such places existed, but she had never dreamt that they could be so close to where she lived and breathed on a daily basis. How could people live in such squalor?  
  
The sense of adventure and intrigue that had excited her a few moments earlier were dulled now by the coldness of the wind and the sheer silence of the dwellings around her, the streets themselves changed by night and moonlight. Doorways and signs that had been glamorous in the sun were dimmed, liked closed eyes: the mouths of alleyways were maws of darkness, vaguely threatening, adding to the mounting apprehension. Marion rushed past them, moving instinctively, following her quarry.  
  
The wind grew stronger and she shivered, folding her arms around herself for what little warmth in body heat they provided. She prayed that Jackelton would soon come to his destination.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Rebecca caught herself quickly as Marion Baeuvin stopped short, throwing herself into an abandoned doorway and disappearing into the shadows. She had been following the girl a little closer than she normally would for fear the child might be attacked by one of the drunken rail workers who lived in the tenement houses surrounding them. The girl was very pretty and very innocent and very much out of her element here. There had been times when Rebecca had to stop herself from grabbing the girl by the arm and dragging her out. This was no place for a lady....at least not for one who could not handle herself well in a fight.  
  
Marion started up again, this time walking at a more determined pace. Rebecca slipped out of the doorway and followed as closely as she dared now that the streets were almost deserted. Up ahead she could just make out Roland Jackelton as he open the door to a building and walked inside.  
  
Marion stopped again and glanced up at the sign posted above the doorway that Roland had just entered. Rebecca didn't need to look at it. She already knew what it was. She had heard the sound of drunken laughter long ago.  
  
The sign said Joe's Pub.  
  
This was definitely not the place for a young innocent to be going into alone. Rebecca gave a very unlady like curse under her breath. She would have to break her cover and take the chance that Phileas was indeed correct about the girl's innocence. Because the men inside that place would eat her alive.  
  
"Phil, you had better be right..." she mumbled and started at a determined pace towards the girl when all of a sudden a hand gripped her arm and yanked her into a darkened doorway. Before she had a chance to react, a familiar chuckle gave her pause, and she relaxed in the man's grip.  
  
"Aren't I always, dear cousin?"  
  
"You can get yourself killed doing that, you know," she murmured. "How long have you been here?"  
  
"Just now arrived actually. I've been following the whole lot of you since the museum."  
  
She pulled away and turned to glance up at him. His face was half hidden in the shadows of the doorway but she could tell he was grinning. "Since the museum?" she repeated.   
  
He nodded. "Don't be too upset, Rebecca. I haven't been caught yet by anyone I've followed."  
  
She punched him non-too gently in the arm. "That doesn't make me feel any better, Phileas. Except to say I'm glad you're on my side."  
  
"Are we now?" he asked lightly. "Have you decided that perhaps my experience in these kinds of situations has been proven useful?"  
  
She frowned. "I'm saying that perhaps you were correct about Miss Baeuvin's innocence and Mister Jackelton guilt. At least she seems to think he's the culprit as well."  
  
"Good. Then you can tell Miss Baeuvin the same and take her home. I'll continue to follow Mister Jackelton and hopefully he will lead us to whoever bought his services."  
  
"She's going inside," Rebecca announced suddenly as if she hadn't heard a word he had said and started forward. Fogg reached out and grabbed her arm again and turned her around so that she faced him once more.  
  
"Rebecca, this is not a place for young girls. Especially innocent ones. She'll be noticed the moment she walks in there." He bent forward so that his face was barely an inch from hers. "And so will you..."  
  
Rebecca jerked her arm out of his grip. "I can take care of myself, Phileas. And the point is moot anyway." she replied as the sound of raucous laughter filled the air, "She's already gone inside."  
  
Without waiting for his reply, she twirled around and hurried after Marion. Remaining incognito was not her main objective anymore, getting that girl out of there was. She had never been to this particular tavern before, but she knew the area. While most of the men inside would be either too drunk or too timid to be of much harm to Marion, there were always those who could be egged on to do just about anything to anyone to prove their manhood.  
  
She knew this for a fact. She had been through the gauntlet a number of times herself.  
  
"Rebecca!" Phileas called out.  
  
She chose to ignore him and threw open the door to the tavern and walked inside.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Joe's Pub would not have been his first choice of a meeting place, but then Roland Jackelton was not one accustomed to clandestine meetings. Perhaps it was the best type of place for conducting the kind of exchange he was about to involve himself in.  
  
About to? Mate, don't kid yourself, he berated himself, You're in this thing way over your head. He was out of his element and he knew it. How in the h-ll had he gotten himself into this? Hadn't he been perfectly happy with his little job at the Museum? It didn't involve a whole lot of physical labor - something he totally abhorred - and he got the chance to use his intellect and education for something he thought worthwhile.  
  
Then why was he here?  
  
The money. Plain and simple. They had offered him more money then he could ever hope to make in a lifetime working in the museum. And all he had to do was steal a single item. A bloodstone....or more correctly, the Bloodstone of Healing. To him it was just a stone, albeit a beautiful crystalline stone, but a stone nonetheless. He knew historically that bloodstones were generally decorative items on much larger artifacts, but this stone had been found alone. Or perhaps the man for whom he stole it knew more about that then he. But he brushed that thought aside. Best stick to one thing at a time. Meet with the contact, hand over the stone, get the money, and jump on the next ship headed for the Americas. When he was safely away he could consider the ramifications of what he had done.  
  
It was just a stone after all. What harm could it be?  
  
Just then the front door of the tavern opened and he absently glanced that way, as did most of the patrons at the bar.  
  
Good g-d! What is she doing here?  
  
Jackelton couldn't believe his eyes. But there she was, Marion Baeuvin, standing in the doorway of the tavern, pale and looking very much like a fish out of water. Instinctively he sat back in his chair at the only unoccupied table he had been able to find, hiding behind the group of men gathered around the card players at the next table.  
  
What was she doing here? Had she followed him here? But why?  
  
Because she knows what you did, you idiot.   
  
Catcalls started going up around the tavern as more and more of the men noticed the pretty little girl standing in the doorway. Good sense finally seemed to dawn on her and she at least moved into the tavern and toward the bar, ignoring the catcalls altogether.   
  
Part of Jackelton wanted to run over there, grab her by the arm, and drag her out of there. The other part convinced him that she knew what she was doing and to leave her alone. He hadn't asked her along anyway. She was a big girl and quite capable of taking care of herself. But he did notice that several of the men had moved down the bar to where she stood, some cutting off her path towards the door should she decide to flee.  
  
Then the catcalls soon turned into rude remarks and suggestions - some of which he highly doubted were humanly possible. Valor told him to get up and at least walk over there.   
  
Self preservation told him to sit still and ignore the situation.  
  
The front door opened again, allowing a soft whisper of a cool breeze into the stuffy and smoky tavern. For a moment the young girl was forgotten - she wasn't going anywhere anyway - as heads turned to sum up the new arrival. From somewhere in the crowd came a highly appreciative whistle.  
  
"So tell me," A decidedly feminine voice called out over the silence that suddenly prevailed. "Where can a girl get a decent drink around here?!"  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Rebecca shoved the door of the tavern open and took a step inside. Cold and damp were instantly replaced by heat and the heady reek of liquor. She blinked, an owl caught in the flare of the hunter's torch, and peered, no less owlishly about. Rough wooden tables were scattered across a floor spread with sawdust, that stained with spillage. Men sat there, tankards and cups before them, answering her examination with predatory gazes. The ceiling was low, hung with lanterns, their light augmented by the lowering flames of the logs burning in a wide stone hearth. To her right was a long bar that took up the entire one side of the building, behind it a fat, bald man in a greasy apron, behind him tapped barrels and shelved flagons, tankards and mugs hung like trophies from wooden pegs.  
  
Oh, well, she thought, here goes nothing.  
  
So with hands placed delicately on her hips she exclaimed in her most feminine voice: "So tell me. Where can a girl get a decent drink around here?!"  
  
The tavern erupted into hearty laughter as Rebecca graced the patrons with a charming smile and did her best saunter up to the bar. All heads turned as she passed, watching the vision of loveliness with keen interest. It had been a very long time since most of them had seen such a beautiful - and well groomed - woman before. And for the moment, all thoughts of the young girl vanished. Which was exactly the way Rebecca had wanted it.  
  
"So what would you recommend?" Rebecca asked the first hulk of a man she saw as she stepped up to the bar.  
  
"All we got is ale," the bartender replied with a crooked grin on his face.  
  
She smiled sweetly and batted her eyelids in his direction. "Then ale it is. In fact," she turned and swept her arm in the air, "I'll buy a round for everyone!"  
  
Cheers went up through out the tavern and bodies pressed towards the bar, half-empty mugs sloshing ale all over the floor. Rebecca took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sweaty, smelly bodies that pressed up against hers. At least she had managed to get their minds off Marion...for the moment. Now she only had to get them good and drunk so they didn't care when she dragged the girl out...  
  
But then so goes the best laid plans of mice and men....  
  
Marion, unable to take the closeness of the bodies that pressed against her nor the hands that groped her, twirled around and made a dash for the door. And all h-ll broke lose.  
  
Rebecca rolled her eyes and let out a very unlady-like curse as several of the men streamed past her and grabbed for Marion as she ran towards the door.   
  
This was going to be bad....very bad.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Fogg waited with trepidation as Rebecca threw open the door to the tavern and walked in. He knew she was quite capable of taking care of herself - he had seen her do so on more than one occasion. But part of him would always fight that knowledge. The part of him that remembered her as a small child the day her parents had been killed and she had come to live with his family. The part of him that remembered her tender ministrations on the day he had come home after the death of his brother. The part of him that remembered the tears in her eyes on the day she had killed her first man.  
  
The part of him that remembered he loved her more than life itself.  
  
The sound of her voice and riotous laughter brought him back to reality and he realized that she had everything under control.  
  
"Now, Mister Jackelton, where would you go once you realized both women had followed you here?" he mused aloud. A smiled crossed his face. "Out the back door of course."  
  
Unless Jackelton knew the tavern well - which Phileas highly doubted given his upbringing - it would take him a few moments to find the back door. But those few moments would be all that Fogg needed to scurry around the outside of the building and await his next move. If this was where he was supposed to meet the man or men he had stolen the stone for, he would most certainly move the meeting anywhere but where he had two unrefutable witnesses.  
  
Fogg searched his memory as he slipped into the alley that ran between the tavern and the closed merchant shop. He had been to this particular tavern a few times to meet with some local snitches back when he was in the Service. And as he recalled he had to slip out the back door once in pursuit of his quarry at the time. If memory served him correctly, there was a small cemetery behind the tavern which extended from the back of the establishment all the way up to the Lincoln Street exchange. It was a poor man's gravesite with large handcarved tombstones and unkempt bushes. He had taken quite a beating from those bushes that night, but by the time they reached Lincoln, he had collared the man and brought him down successfully.  
  
The memory brought a small smile to Fogg's lips. Gaw, he really did miss the Service at times.  
  
He reached the end of the alley and took a cautious peek around the corner. The area directly behind the tavern was empty save for several overloaded trash bins and a few cats having their fill from them. The cemetery beyond was just as he remembered, except perhaps a bit more run-down looking.  
  
Fogg slipped out of the alley and made his way cautiously across the trash area. One of the cats studied him warily across the carcass of a rat and he halted, returning the animal's stare. The cat's tail furred and it hissed a challenge, as though it feared he might contest it's prize. Yellow eyes glared in the moonlight, then the feline sank long fangs in to the bloodied hide and carried the body swiftly off into the darkness. The other cats quickly followed.  
  
He took another quick glance around.  
  
The building on the other side of the tavern shared an outside wall with it and had a doorway much closer to the trash area where he could see without being seen and hear whatever was said. It also gave him an unobstructed view of the cemetery beyond should they move the meeting that way. He had barely settled into the shadows of the doorway when the backdoor of the tavern flew open and four men walked out.  
  
Four. He smiled. Those were odds he could handle.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Quickly Rebecca started after the younger woman - just as the first man reached out to grab her. Rebecca extended her arm, balled her fist, and slammed it into the man throat. The man had time for one strangled gasp, and was out cold before he hit the floor.  
  
The second man did not hesitate, but came straight on. Rebecca swept aside her cape and stood poised as the man, with a wordless yell, attacked.  
  
The man might have been a decent fighter, but in his present condition was no match for the professional agent. Rebecca blocked his blow with one forearm, then came in with a hard, lethal blow that partially crushed the man's larynx.  
  
She had no time to check that he was still alive. She only had time to dodge just as a third man struck, silent and with the expertise the other two had lacked.  
  
The young woman whirled away from the man, and as she did so, whipped off the cape she had been wearing and flung it into the third man's face. With one smooth movement, however, her opponent disentangled himself and came in again.   
  
This fellow, Rebecca knew instantly, was not as drunk as the others - and seemed to know what he was doing. Despite the situation, she smiled slightly, pleased for the challenge. She had her throwing knives within reach and could use them at any time, but she decided against it. She wanted as little blood shed as possible. It wouldn't due to become entangled in some civilian affair while working a case for the Queen. Besides a little exercise would be welcome.  
  
The man was already dancing in, balanced, his eyes level. Rebecca let him come, then dodged his fist at the last possible second, pulling herself into an arc like a far eastern dancer, and then spinning around, out of the way. As she moved, her hand moved out and dealt the man a stunning clip behind his right ear.  
  
The man managed to dodge at the last moment, though, and the blow that had been meant to render him unconscious only dazed him. He staggered a little, shook his head, then came back for more.  
  
Rebecca was only too pleased to oblige. They sidestepped each other in a grim parody of a waltz she had seen only last week in London.  
  
The guard lunged again, and again Rebecca waited, then evaded the movement at the last possible second. Another blow made the man gasp - this time her instep impacted with the back of his knee. The man's leg buckled, and, for the first time, Rebecca saw fear in his eyes. He now knew he was totally outclassed, and yet he conquered his pain and weakness and moved in again.  
  
For the first time, Rebecca went on the attack. Her foot lashed out in a precise blow, and impacted with the man's wrist with stunning force. Then she spun in for the finish. Another sweep behind the other knee, and the man sagged, his legs unable to hold him. But that did not matter. Rebecca already had him around the neck in a grip as hard and relentless as steel. It would only take one, quick, sideways jerk, and she could snap his neck.  
  
Instead, she glanced up at the other men gathered around her, a devilish grin on her face. "Now I suggest you all take a few steps back, gentlemen, and go back to your business of getting drunk. I am in a foul mood this evening and may very well kill one of you." She graced each of the men in the front with a hard gaze. "Which one of you would you like it to be? Hmmm?"  
  
The men did indeed take one step back, but they went no further. She knew her hard-nosed approach would last for only a moment or so. At least until the fear wore off and the liquor spurned them on. Even in a drunken stupor they would eventually overpower her by sheer numbers. She was good - the best the Secret Service had to offer - but she wasn't that good.  
  
Marion was at the door by now. At least having had enough sense to continue on in her flight despite the altercation. She just hadn't been able to bring herself to walk out, and leave her savior behind. She put her hand on the doorknob now, ready to yank it open.  
  
Rebecca sensed the movement, and saw the girl's hand on the doorknob from the periphery of her vision. She slowly straightened, her arm sliding perceptively from around the third man's neck. Then before anyone had the chance to take their next breath she shoved the man into the crowd with a swift kick and hastened toward the door. Marion had the door open by the time she got there and she shoved the girl out before her.  
  
Both stumbled out into the chilling night air.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Jackelton was impressed with Rebecca's Fogg penchant for fighting like a man for he had never seen a woman fight quite like that before. Either man or woman, she was very good and he would have loved to stay and see the outcome of the battle. But just as he settled down to watch, a figure detached itself from the crowd toward the back of the pub and approached his table. He recognized the man as the one who had approached him earlier in the week about the stone.   
  
"You have the merchandise?" the man inquired, starting to sit down.  
  
"Yes, I do. But I'd rather not do business here. It's a little too obstreperous for my liking." Roland saw no need to mention the fact that he had been followed to the pub by the two women causing the disturbance.  
  
"Fine." The man was obviously irritated. "We can do this outside as well as in. Follow me."  
  
He stood up and walked back the way he had come, towards a small corridor Jackelton had not noticed until now. He stood and followed after a distance.  
  
The corridor led past the kitchen and water closets to another doorway at the end. As Jackelton walked past the kitchen he was aware that two other figures had entered the hallway as well. With a casual glance backward he noticed that these men wore the same unusual style uniform his contact wore. He also noted quite distressingly, that they were both also armed with long swords.  
  
With an uneasy feeling he stepped through the door and walked outside onto a small cobblestone street, the width of perhaps a small wagon which ran along the backs of all the establishments for the purposes of making deliveries. Across this street lay the local cemetery.  
  
His contact was waiting at the entrance of the cemetery with arms crossed and that irritated look on his face. He motioned for Jackelton to follow him further inside. The other two men followed closely behind.  
  
"The merchandise?" his contact inquired again.  
  
"The money?" he queried, trying to sound just as irritated and failing miserably. He had the unshakeable fear that this deal was about to turn sour. He should never have left the building. At least there he had two people who would not have wanted to see harm come to him.  
  
The contact glanced up at the two men and nodded his head toward the alley leading back to the front of the pub. One nodded in return and positioned himself at the mouth to deter any unwanted visitors. The other stepped up behind Jackelton. So close that the man could feel the breath on the back of his neck.. He could not suppress the shudder of fear that ran down his back.  
  
The contact moved forward, a nasty grin plastered on his face. "The merchandise?"  
  
You turn over that stone now, Roland, and you are dead, he thought to himself. These guys are not fooling around.  
  
"I don't have it on me," Jackelton replied in what he hoped was a casual, unassuming manner.  
  
The nasty grin grew wider and more malicious, if that was possible. "You already told me you had it with you." He took a step closer. "Are you saying you lied to me?"  
  
Gaw, was there no way out of this?  
  
Apparently the answer was no. For before he had the chance to respond, the man behind him grabbed his arms and held on fast. He didn't bother to struggle. There would have been no use. He was no fighter by any means - save with a pistol, one of which he hadn't thought to bring. He was about to die and he knew it.  
  
"Why don't we show this scum what we do to people who lie to us." the contact remarked. He stepped back then as the man who had been guarding the alley came forward. Roland swallowed hard and closed his eyes. This was going to be bad.....very bad.....  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Phileas Fogg held his breath and his temper as he watched the scene played out before him. The League of Darkness, he seethed, recognizing immediately the uniforms of the three men that had walked out of the tavern with Jackelton. I should have known. The alleged powers of the Crown of Souls would be an allurement Count Gregory could not have withstood. And if he were responsible for the theft of this stone, he was also responsible for the theft of the other two. And perhaps the crown itself, although Chattsworth had said nothing of it.  
  
Even though Phileas did not believe in the mystical powers of the crown, he had seen too many unexplainable things in his day to at least warrant the possibility that it could be dangerous. Either way, he did not want it to end up in the hands of the League of Darkness.  
  
"Why don't we show this scum what we do to people who lie to us," he heard one of the men reply.   
  
Fogg watched as the man backed out of the way, stopping only a few feet away from the trash bins. The third man, the one who had been watching the alley, stepped forward, blocking Fogg's view of Jackelton. But he didn't need to see the young man to know what was going on. He only had to hear the cry as the first fist hit him.  
  
With a war cry, Phileas came out from behind the trash cans fighting. He hurled his coat at the first man, enveloping him head and shoulders, and launched himself at the back of the second, almost overbearing the bigger man with the fury of his onslaught.  
  
This was no time for a chivalrous exchange of blows. The man cried out in anguish as a knee drove into his groin, and the back of an elbow smashed into his collarbone with shattering force. As Fogg jumped aside, the man toppled.  
  
By the time that the first man fought free of the coat, Fogg crouched out of sight in the bushes. Nursing a bruised elbow, he planned his next move. The second man, he could hear moaning and retching, hopefully the victim of a broken collarbone, and the first man didn't worry him much. Of the third man there was no sign - and that worried him.  
  
But then he heard him moving his way, thrashing about in the bushes. On hands and knees, Fogg circled around him, hoping to gain the advantage of surprise and finish him off before the other two recovered.  
  
They met in a dark alley between two hedges, where Fogg hoped for the element of surprise. But a twig snapped underfoot, betraying his approach, and his attack came a fraction of an instant too slow. The man drew his sword and parried the blow easily, and a fierce struggle ensued.  
  
A sound behind Fogg warned him of another's approach. As the first man darted into the fray, Fogg side-stepped and swung his sword up to block - almost too slow again.  
  
And after that it was circle and retreat, retreat and circle, in a desperate attempt to keep one opponent or the other from getting at his back and taking him from behind. The clatter of steel rang in his ears. It seemed to Phileas that all his movements were slower than normal, or that theirs were much quicker. They almost seemed to be fighting in tandem. Like they knew each other's moves.  
  
Circle and retreat, block and parry. Fogg's breath came painfully now, but his opponents hadn't even broken a sweat. It made no sense. From the looks of them, he was in far better shape physically, but yet they didn't even appear tired. Compared to them his movements seemed slow and clumsy and it would only be a matter of time before one of them got past his guard.  
  
Circle and retreat, strike high and swing low to block the next blow. Then one of the swords took him in the side, just below the ribs, and the impact sent him to his hands and knees. There was a searing pain and a warm gush of blood as the sword was pulled free, and Fogg heard an exultant cry: "That will finish you, you English b-stard!"  
  
With every last once of strength he had left, he pushed himself up onto his knees and rocked back painfully onto his heels, waiting for the blow that would finish him off. Taking a deep, painful breath he glanced up.  
  
Two swords leveled themselves off at his shoulders as the two men stood staring at him.  
  
"Who are you?" the first man asked.  
  
Fogg gave a small chuckle before answering. "Phileas Fogg."  
  
And that was the last thing he knew or heard, because the ground suddenly hurled itself at his head, and everything went dark.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"Phileas?" Rebecca called out.  
  
She dragged Marion with her over to the doorway and peered inside. It was empty. She shoved the younger woman gently up against the wall. "You!" she exclaimed, wriggling a finger not more than a centimeter in front her face, "stay right there. Don't move unless I say."  
  
Marion, too exhausted and frightened to move even if she wanted to, just nodded.  
  
Rebecca released her grip on the girl's arm and turned around to survey the area. There were several ways he could have gone. One was back up the way they had all come. Two was down the street to the right. Three was down the street to the left. And four was down the alley between the pub and the merchant store.....which would have taken him to the back door of the pub.  
  
"Gaw, Phileas. When you're right, you're right." she mumbled.  
  
The front door to the tavern was opening. Marion let out a frightened gasp and grabbed Rebecca by the arm, pulling her into the safety of the darkened doorway. Rebecca didn't protest. They had barely made it out of the tavern with their limbs intact and clothes on. She was not so sure they would fair as well the second time around.  
  
Several men came pouring out of the doorway into the empty street. There were angry shouts and even angrier words. These men meant business and they were out for blood. The mob split into three groups, each one taking a different direction.  
  
Rebecca pressed Marion further into the shadows, protecting the young girl as best she could should their hiding place be discoverred. She had no reason to fear, however, as the group passing by was too far bent on revenge and mayhem to pay much attention to their surroundings.  
  
"What do we do now?" Marion whispered, realizing that their only way back to the main street had just been cut off.  
  
"Follow me. And do exactly what I say."  
  
Rebecca slipped out of the doorway and hugged the wall until she was able to get a good view of the street on either side of the pub. The other two groups were also well on their way at a determined pace. A feeling of guilt welled up inside her for any poor unfortunates that were to meet up with them in their present drunken and p-ssed off conditions.  
  
She motioned for Marion to follow.  
  
The two young women scurried across the cobblestone street, mindful of the noise their shoes caused as they ran, and disappeared into the alley between the pub and mercantile. It wasn't until they were well down the alley that Rebecca finally slowed down and the two were able to catch their breaths. She motioned for Marion to stay put while she continued the rest of the way to the back of the building. Marion was more than happy to comply. She'd had enough of surprises and adventures for one night thank you.  
  
Rebecca quietly stole the remainder of the way to the end of the alley and poked her head carefully out for a quick peek. She was not prepared for what she found.  
  
Roland Jackelton. And he didn't look too good.  
  
She gave a very unladylike curse and scanned the area. As far as she could see, the way was clear. There was no movement behind the pub save for a group of cats that were gathered around the dead body of Roland Jackelton. She said dead because she highly doubted that anyone with a sword shoved in his gut that way could still be alive. At least she hoped not.  
  
"Is everything all right...." Marion asked coming up behind her.   
  
Rebecca threw out her arm to stop her, but she was too late. She could tell by the strangled gasp that escaped the younger girl's lips that she had seen the body. "I told you to stay put." Rebecca hissed angrily.  
  
"Is he dead.....?"  
  
"Oh, I should think so." She was in no mood for niceties now. If the girl kept insisting on disregarding her orders, she would just simply stop trying to protect her.  
  
"But who would do such a thing?"  
  
Rebecca turned her head to regard the girl in the pale light of the moon. Could anyone still be so innocent? Gaw, some times she still wished she could be that innocent to the ways of the world. Try as he had, God bless his soul, Phileas hadn't succeeded in protecting her from the villainy, just as she could not now protect Marion.  
  
"Whoever he came here to meet I should assume." Rebecca finally answered as she cautiously moved out of the alley. The cats protested loudly as she approached the body and scampered as far back as the trash cans, but went no further. With quizzical gazes, they watched her as she dropped to her knees and reached out to feel for a pulse. As she had expected, she found none. With a frustrated sigh, she glanced up and around the area. "Phileas, where are you?" she mused softly.  
  
Marion came out the alley, but went no further then the mouth. "You don't think he might have done this, do you?"  
  
Rebecca was only half listening. "Who?"  
  
"Your husband....Phileas."  
  
Despite the situation, Rebecca couldn't help but burst out with laughter. She had to throw a hand down just to steady herself as her body shook with uncontrollable giggles. When she glanced up at the younger girl, she actually had tears in her eyes. "Phileas is not my husband." she replied with a gasp for air. "He is my cousin."  
  
Rebecca could not help but note the change in Marion's face at her answer. Was that a sigh of relief that escaped her throat? An excited smile that played at the corner of her mouth? Phileas's unrefutable charm strikes again, she thought with amusement.   
  
"No, Phileas would not have done something this heinous and then run off. Most probable, he is in pursuit of whoever did."  
  
She gained her feet and glanced about again. Her eyes swept across the entrance to the cemetery, the iron gate surrounding it, then the cobblestone street leading in either direction from the pub. The moon played softly across something lying in the street, just the other side of the trash cans. Taking care to keep a prudent distance from the cans themselves, she walked over to find out what it was.  
  
"Oh, gaw..." A hand flew up to her mouth, cutting short the rest of her sentence. She didn't have to move any closer to recognize what lay in the street. It was a coat. A rust colored long coat. It was Phileas's coat. She dropped to her knees and reached out and snatched it and pulled it into her arms. It was dry, no evidence of blood. No rips or tears. Almost as if he had taken it off himself. But why? It was certainly not like Phileas to take his coat off - even in the heat of a duel. And he most certainly would never have discarded it so recklessly.  
  
She checked the ground beneath where it had been lying as well as to either side. There were no puddles of blood either. She slowly gained her feet again and turned around to sweep the area once more. And that's when she saw something else lying on the ground the other side of the alley. Something that shined dully in the soft light afforded by the waxing moon. With the coat tucked protectively against her side, Rebecca walked over to it.  
  
She stopped just short of it, a sharp pang in her stomach confirming what her eyes already had. It was Phileas's walking stick. The one Passepartout had converted into a short sword shortly after the last time his master had been caught in battle without a weapon. It had been a simple matter for the valet, and Phileas had agreed to it because it was the only way to appease the man. Secretly Rebecca knew her cousin had been touched by the gesture and that deep down inside he knew that it had made perfect sense given his penchant for getting involved in fights at the drop of a hat. Chivalry was alive and well in the form of one Phileas Fogg.  
  
The walking stick had been unsheathed which meant Phileas had used it as a sword. There was no blood on the blade, but there was a puddle beside it, shining ruby in the moonlight.  
  
Rebecca twirled around, clutching the jacket to her chest, suddenly feeling very frightened. Not for herself, but for her cousin. Because she knew, without a doubt, that the blood was his. And that this time there was a very good possibility she may never see him again.  
  
"Phileas!"   
  



	5. Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE  
In Which Passepartout Makes A Chilling Discovery  
  
  
The train trip to Calais had gone on without incident, giving both Passepartout and Verne a chance to catch up on some much-needed sleep. They had managed to snag seats not very far from the five men they had been following. The hour being as late as it was, there were very few people in the car, which meant that the pair couldn't get as close as they would have liked without looking suspicious. But it also meant there would be fewer stops to make along the way, cutting the trip to the coast by a good hour.   
  
By the time the train pulled into the city of Calais, the sun was just beginning to rise.  
  
The five men arose quickly as the train stopped and walked out onto the platform of the station, still completely oblivious to the fact that they were being followed. After a quick stretch they turned and headed toward the shipping docks where Verne was convinced they would be taking the ferry to Dover.  
  
"What will be doing once we get to England?" Passepartout inquired as they picked their way among the early morning crowd. He had been hoping that Jules had come to his senses during the night and would allow him to fetch the Foggs before taking any action against the five men. Sometimes he got the feeling that Verne was picking up all the wrong traits from his master.  
  
Verne could sense the apprehension in his friend's voice and he smiled. "Don't worry, Passepartout. I promise once we know for sure what's going on, we'll alert the authorities. I just don't think we need to bother Phileas and Rebecca with this. It's not a matter for the Secret Service, it's a simple matter for the police."  
  
"Passepartout always worries when someone tells him not to. We should be calling the police now."  
  
"And tell them what?  
  
"About the robbery. If they be searching the men, they be finding the stone."  
  
"Will they?" Verne threw his hands up in the air. "We haven't even seen the stone. This could all be a wild goose chase. But if it's not, wouldn't it be better to turn over both stones?"  
  
Passepartout raised an eyebrow as he regarded his young friend. "Would you be impressing Miss Rebecca or Mister Fogg with this little escape?"  
  
Jules felt his face flush and quickly turned away. He had hoped that his attraction for Rebecca would go largely unnoticed by both her cousin and Passepartout. Now it was obvious that at least the valet had taken some notice. And as for impressing Fogg, that seemed nearly impossible, although he was always wont to try for reasons even he couldn't perceive.  
  
"Neither," he finally responded when the silence proved too embarrassing. "It's just that I'm growing rather tired of always being in the shadows. How can I write a convincing novel full of adventure and intrigue if I know nothing of them?"  
  
Passepartout raised the other eyebrow. "How can you be saying that, Master Jules? We have had plenty of adventures together. You and Passepartout and Miss Rebecca and Mister Fogg...."  
  
"That's it, Passepartout." Verne exclaimed, his motions becoming more animate as he spoke. "Once the excitement starts, Fogg or Rebecca steps in and suddenly I'm out of the picture...."  
  
"Well, that's only because they care about you. They don't want to be seeing you hurt."  
  
"Oh, I know that. And I appreciate it...really. But just once I'd like to be the one doing the rescuing instead of the one being rescued."  
  
Passepartout couldn't help but smile. "But this is what they be doing for a living, Master Jules. It is their job to be doing the rescuing and capturing the bad men."  
  
Verne glanced sidelong at his friend. "And you, Passepartout. What is your job? You're right in the middle of it all."  
  
Without missing a beat, the valet replied, "Passepartout's job is to take care of his master...."  
  
And that was the end of that discussion, at least as far as Passepartout was concerned. For no matter how many questions Verne postulated, nor how many times he asked them, the valet's mouth remained firmly shut. Sometimes a little secrecy was best.  
  
They had reached the docks by now, with the five men they had been diligently following only a few paces ahead. With the early morning dawn came more people and increased chances of losing their quarry if they allowed too much space between them. But at this point, the men turned left, away from the commercial aspects of the fishing community and walked instead towards the private docks. It became quite obvious to both Verne and Passepartout that these men were not going to Dover. At least not by the ferry.  
  
"This not be good." Passepartout commented as the people started to thin out, knowing that soon it would  
become obvious to the men that they were being followed. Suddenly Verne grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the dock, dragging him behind a ramshackle building just this side of falling completely apart.  
  
"No," Verne agreed, peering cautiously around the side of the shack. "This not be good at all."  
  
Passepartout raised an eyebrow, "Passepartout's been telling you that for hours."  
  
Verne half turned his head to look at him. "No, I don't mean that, Passepartout." He turned away again. "I mean that."  
  
A confused look passed across the valet's face. He had not seen anything that would have caused Verne  
such apprehension. He inch around to the other side of the shack and peered around it himself, hoping to catch a glimpse of what Verne was speaking of.  
  
"Ceci ne peut pas être!" escaped from his lips before he had a chance to stop it.  
  
"My thoughts exactly."  
  
All thoughts of following the men disappeared completely. There was no need as the two men knew exactly where they were heading.  
  
"We can contact Mister Fogg and Miss Rebecca now?" Passepartout inquired hopefully.  
  
Verne pulled back away from the edge of the shack and glanced over at the valet. His face had gone a pasty white, all thoughts of intrigue and adventure vanquished from his mind. He nodded. "I think that would be the prudent thing to do, Passepartout." he replied, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably.  
  
Passepartout was wont to say 'told you so' but did not think this the proper time. Perhaps when all was said and done and they were enjoying tea in the parlor of the Aurora he would bring it up again, but not now.  
  
"Passepartout will go send the telegram while Master Jules stays here and keeps an eye on things." The valet explained matter-of-factly.  
  
Again Verne nodded. He was still a little too shocked by what they had found to speak. This was a turn of events he had not quite expected. If he had, he most certainly wouldn't have spoken as boldly as he had before. To his credit, he was very glad Passepartout did not bring that up.  
  
Passepartout straightened out the jacket sleeve Verne had rumpled and nearly ripped off in his haste to get the valet out of sight. Even in times of great distress it was beneficial to look ones best. "You will be all right while Passepartout is gone?" he asked Verne, noting the slightly faraway cast to the younger man's eyes.  
  
"I....I'll be fine, Passepartout."  
  
Of this Passepartout was not so sure. Whenever the League of Darkness was involved he was not sure. "Passepartout will be back soon, Master Jules. Very soon."  
  
Verne nodded for the third time, glad to be alone. With a frightened sigh he fell back against the wall of the shack and slowly sank to the ground. He hated the fact that just the mention of the League of Darkness could cause such foreboding in his very soul. Would there ever be a day when he could hear the name and feel something other than fear? Even anger would be preferable. At least anger would spur him into action - like Phileas Fogg. Fear caused him to sit here trembling behind a run-down shack while Passepartout went off to.....  
  
The sound of a gruff voice brought him back to reality with a startled gasp that almost betrayed his position.  
  
"Hey, you! What are you doing here?!"  
  
He looked up, half expecting to see that familiar dark blue uniform he had himself once worn, but there was no one there. No, the voice had come from the direction of the dock. The direction that Passepartout had just started in.  
  
Passepartout...  
  
On his hands and knees, because he was just too terrified to try gaining his feet, he crawled over to the edge of the shack and peered around. Then just as quickly shrank back as he found the valet confront by four League of Darkness men not more a foot from where he knelt.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"Hey, you! What are you doing here?!"  
  
Passepartout stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of the voice. Despite his bravado in front of Verne, the sight of a large boat-load full of League of Darkness men had sent shivers down his own spine as well. Although he had only had one real contact with the group since coming in to the service of Phileas Fogg, that one experience had been quite enough. He had seen the damage done to Jules Verne as well as to Miss Rebecca. And the look in his master's eyes whenever the name was mention would cause the hair on the back of his neck to rise.  
  
"Passepartout is in bad trouble..." he mumbled to himself. "Very bad trouble...."  
  
The sound of approaching footsteps caused him to put on a fake smile and turn around. Perhaps if he acted innocent they would simply send him on his way. Four men in the blue uniform of the League of Darkness stopped before him. The smile wavered.  
  
"I said, what are you doing here?" one exclaimed in perfect French.  
  
"I think I am lost," he answered, hoping the frightened look that crossed his face could pass for confusion instead.  
  
"Hey, don't I know you?" a second one replied, closely examining the valet's face. And for one sickening moment Passepartout thought he recognized the man as well. The man's face scrunched in thought for a few moments and then a broad smile crossed his face. At that very moment, Passepartout wondered if he could possibly outrun them. "Yes. Yes, I do. You're the cook over at the Bistro on Boneparte. Are you not?" Without waiting for a response the man clapped his fellow comrade on the shoulder and pointed a finger at the valet. "Yes. Yes, he is. Looks like the captain's going to be eating well this trip. He's bringing his favorite chef!"  
  
Passepartout's smile faltered for just a moment before he came to a decision. Passepartout could tell them they are mistaken and hope they send him on his way. Or Passepartout could tell them they are mistaken and let them kill him for spying. Or Passepartout could tell them they are correct and go with them to big ship....where they will find out he is lying and kill him anyway. Or where he could find out what they are doing and then sneak off ship before anyone be suspecting he is spying.  
  
Sometimes he really wished he had shown Mister Fogg the Baron's cards that first night they had met after Sir Bonafice's funeral. He'd still be flying the Aurora for the Baron to places that had never heard of the League of Darkness. Or Count Gregory. Beautiful places far from the ugliness of what was happening in the real world. Places that didn't require the assistance of the British Secret Service. Places that had never heard of Rebecca Fogg or Phileas Fogg....or Jules Verne....  
  
Sometimes he wished that...but not often...and certainly not now. His life had forever been change that night and there was no possibility of ever going back. Not that he ever wanted to. Where he had felt loyalty towards the Baron, he felt love for the Foggs and for Jules Verne. And like all three of them would be willing to do for him, he would be willing to die for any or all of them.  
  
"Yes," he replied shortly, his voice sounding strong and confident, perhaps a bit arrogant. The smile on his face broadened as he realized he almost sounded like Mister Fogg. He knew the bistro well and he also knew her head chef. He was certain he could affect a good impersonation of the man...at least until an opportunity arose where he could make good his escape. There was a very good chance that no one on board the ship would know the chef personally as he was rumored to be a very reclusive man. Not even the captain. At least that was his feverant prayer. "I am Monsieur Devereaux of the Bistro d'Angelo and I seem to have lost my way to the ship."  
  
"Then it is most fortunate that we came along when we did, Monsieur Devereaux." The first man replied. "We are on the way there ourselves for the ship sails within the hour. Let us escort you there personally and perhaps you can return the favor by sending some of that famous food our way. I cannot possibly stomach that garbage the Egyptians call food."  
  
Passepartout struggled to keep his eyebrow from rising in surprise. So they were bound for Egypt. How very interesting. What could possibly be in Egypt that would concern the League of Darkness? And what did it have to do with the stones stolen from the museums?  
  
"Perhaps I can." the valet finally replied. He waved his hand in the air in what he hoped was an effectually pretentious way and said. "Carry on then. I must check my supplies before we depart."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Passepartout and the four men were well out of sight before Jules Verne remembered to breathe again. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to calm the rapid beating of his heart. That had been a close one. A very close one. But the valet was not out of danger yet. He had taken quite a risk which would come to naught if Verne did not do his part. It was up to him now to contact the Foggs and get them here as soon as possible. If the ship did indeed set sail within the hour it would have enough of a head start to make it rather difficult to catch up to - even in the Aurora. Crossing over land, of course, would get them to the continent quicker, but they had no idea where in Egypt the ship was headed.  
  
No, their best bet would be to follow it to it's destination. Or better yet, destroy it before it reached it's destination.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Jean Passepartout was a blessed man. A blessed man indeed.   
  
At least that's how Jean Passepartout saw it. He was still in one unmolested piece and his impromptu plan was proceeding accordingly. The four League of Darkness sailors had been rather pleasant fellows - despite the fact that they were evile servants to the most despicable Count Gregory - and had shown him post haste to the ship's dock where he could check out the food supplies for the long journey to Egypt. And since he had been escorted no one else on the dock or the ship paid much attention to him as he proceeded to poke and prod at the bags and boxes that were currently being loaded.  
  
For the most part the items being loaded were typical food staples and items that would be needed by a rather large amount of people for a long journey by sea. He found nothing there that would cause one trepidation. It was very untypical of the League of Darkness and therefore caused the valet great anxiety.  
  
As he continued to ponder just what the devil the League was up to now, he took a step back and actually looked at the ship for the first time.  
  
It was a huge steamboat. The kind they used for transatlantic voyages. Only this one was much larger. It took up most of the dock in this area, save for a few pleasure crafts moored at the other end. Passepartout had little doubt that she was well armed as well. It belonging to the League of Darkness and all. Count Gregory was not known for thinking small.  
  
He realized then, that his only hope of finding out what was truly going on was to climb aboard the ship and snoop around it's insides. He knew he had less than an hours time and stood a very good chance of being discovered if he went aboard. But he also knew that once his master and Miss Rebecca found out about the League's involvement with the heists at both the British Museum and the Louvre, one of them would insist on sneaking aboard themselves to find out what was going on. If he went himself, giving the fact that he was already here and had some form of cover - flimsy as it might be - circumstances might be more favorable for a stealth-like reconnoiter. If Miss Rebecca was discovered aboard, she could in no way be mistaken for a League man nor a member of the crew. Mister Fogg, despite his vast years of experience in the Service, had a tendency to go off too quickly when it came to dealings with Count Gregory and the League of Darkness. He would, no doubt, end up having to fight his way off the ship.  
  
"No, Passepartout must be doing this," he said aloud. "It is best way."  
  
So he grabbed one of the boxes filled with spices and with determined steps started up the gangplank that would take him to the upper deck of the ship. At the top he stepped aside to allow those behind him to continue on their way, and waited for a heartbeat. Waited for someone to shout that he wasn't allowed on board, or worse yet for the sound of a gun firing and the sharp pain of the bullet to pass through. But no one yelled, no gun was fired. No one even paid him much mind. They were all very busy doing their jobs. Probably figuring that no one was stupid enough to be on board that shouldn't be.  
  
Ha - they didn't know Passepartout!  
  
He glanced about the crowded deck of the ship for a few moments, deciding which course would be the best to take. He spotted the location of the hold which would no doubt contain the bulk of the ship's supplies and probably the area he would find what he sought. But at the moment it was overrun with League men, both loading and guarding. His best chances of checking on the cargo would be after it was all loaded and the ship was very close to casting off. He could spend his time now searching for the door at the bottom of the hold where he could enter undetected.   
  
He turned his head and watched several of the men carrying boxes come up the ramp and go off to the left, away from the main deck, toward the cabins, and the innards of the ship. He waited until the last of the men passed and then moved in behind him, bringing up the rear of the chain.  
  
Passepartout dropped his box beside the others then busied himself by pretending to unload it. The rest of the men, noting briefly that he was not dressed in a uniform but looked quite at home in the kitchen, turned and filed out of the room, presumably going for more boxes.  
  
Leaving Passepartout alone.  
  
The valet dropped the two spoons he had been holding back in the box and stepped away. Giving the room a brief scan he found what he sought - a large butcher's knife lying on the counter beside several knives of lesser stature. If he was caught spying now, at least he stood a fighting chance of escaping. He gently scooped up the knife and slid it carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket. He would just have to remember it was there and not make any sudden twists or turns....the results would be...he winced at the mere thought...catastrophic to say the least.  
  
Now, armed with a decent weapon and feeling a little more heroic, he turned to leave the room when his gaze fell upon a pile of white jackets and trousers. Obviously the uniforms for the cooking staff. A little devilish grin crossed his face.  
  
"My plan be brilliant," he exclaimed. "All falling together."  
  
He grabbed one of each and scurried out of the room before the next batch of boxes could be delivered.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Jules Verne had waited until the figures of Passepartout and his companions had all but faded from sight before finally gaining his feet. He was wont to remain sitting there, hidden from the sight of anyone save a person coming into the back yard of the house before him. He figured at the moment it was the safest place for him to be. What with the city of Calais literally crawling with the minions of the League of Darkness, the Foggs sitting blissfully unaware of the danger somewhere in London, and Passepartout about ready to enter into the mouth of H-ll. No, if he were really as intelligent as everyone seemed to think he was, he should turn around and take the next train back to Paris where he could lock himself away in the safety of his garret. Safe, at least until the next time Count Gregory found the need to pick his brain.  
  
"Jules, you're a complete idiot and a shameful coward," he mumbled to himself in embarrassment. "Pull yourself together and get on with it. They don't even know you're here!"  
  
Which was true. The League had no idea he was here. And for the most part very few of them knew what he actually looked like. Those lucky few who had managed to escape the clutches of either Phileas or Rebecca Fogg. All the others were either dead or rotting in some prison - or wherever the Secret Service deemed to send their prisoners of war. But somehow he had the feeling that even those lucky few had been "done away with" after reporting their failure to Count Gregory.  
  
"You're perfectly safe...." he went on, feeling a tad bit better. "Unless they catch you talking to yourself," he continued with an almost hysterical laugh, "and send you off to a lunatic asylum!"   
  
A small smile crossed his face then and he felt his courage bolstered. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he checked the dock once more for any activity and finding none he slid out from behind the shack and headed back toward the city.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Miss Rebecca Fogg  
C/O of White Hall  
London, England  
  
Rebecca,  
  
Unsettling developments in Calais. L.O.D. activity. Ship headed for Egypt within the hour. Passepartout  
aboard. Bring Fogg and the Aurora. Meet at the Calais docks.  
  
Jules  
  
It was short and sweet and to the point Verne thought as he dictated the telegram to the man at the desk. He would send a similar telegram to the Aurora as well as to Fogg's London address on Saville Row. It was his fervent hope to catch the pair at least at one of the addresses. If they could not be found at either the Aurora or on Saville Row, the Secret Service would know where to find Rebecca. That was why he mentioned the League, if rather cryptically, in the message. The Secret Service was just as "enthusiastic" as the Foggs to bring the League down.  
  
It would take a while for the telegrams to reach London and then their final destinations. Verne only hoped it would not be too late. What the Foggs would do once they arrived, he had no idea. It was highly doubtful the four of them would be able to bring the whole ship down in port or on the high seas anyway. He highly doubted the entire Parisian police force could do it either. It was at times like this that he was very glad he didn't need to make such decisions. He had done his part and now he was perfectly happy to let the Foggs do theirs.  
  
But what of Passepartout?  
  
Verne paid the man for his services and hurried back to the dock. The streets were now crowded with merchants hawking their goods and customers haggling for better prices. The breeze grew stronger again as he approached the docks, coming off the sea, tangy with the scent of ozone.  
  
The North Sea was a metallic grey, flecked with white where waves broke, spray bursting across the long mole that protected the harbor. Ships rocked there, mostly caravels that plied the coastal trade through the Straits of Dover and English Channel, and fishing boats that were dwarfed by their larger companions  
  
Verne felt much safer with the larger morning crowds and soon lost himself amongst them. He walked with the flow to a small dirt path that followed parallel to the wooden dock off to his left. He figured if he followed that it would take him to the boat without leaving him within view of the men on deck. At some point along the path he planned on cutting through a deserted yard and sneaking up to the dock unseen.  
  
Again. The best laid plans of mice and men.  
  
He had just turned onto the dirt path when the sound of a large whistle cut through the air. For a brief moment all activity on the dock stopped and heads turned to seek out the source of the noise. From somewhere nearby, Verne caught a snatch of conversation.  
  
"It's the strange boat that docked late last night from Dover." one voice said.  
  
"The big one?" asked another.  
  
"Yes. Heard tell they bought up most of the food supplies at the mercantile. They've been loading all morning. I also heard they won't allow anyone near the ship. Gave quite a few onlookers a quick bath in the water that tried."  
  
"Well, sounds to me as if she's preparing to leave."  
  
Verne turned and ran as fast as he could down the dock toward the large ship. He didn't care now whether he was spotted from the deck or not. All he cared about was getting to that boat. Of course he hoped Passepartout would jump out of whatever space he found to be hiding in and stop him before he got too far. But the valet never made an appearance. In fact there was not a soul to be found as the large steamboat slipped away from the dock and headed out of the harbor.  
  
Then the dock and dry land suddenly dropped away and the young man could go no further. He skidded to a halt with a very loud curse. Then shaking his fist in the direction of the departing ship, he cried out n utter desperation, "Passepartout!"  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Passepartout had found an empty cabin shortly after leaving the kitchen where he was able to change into the white uniform of the kitchen help and secretly stow away his own clothes. Fortune had smiled on him, too, for the uniform had come with an apron where he could effectively hide the strange bulk of the cleaver he carried.  
  
Peering cautiously around corners as he made his way through the maze of corridors into the bowels of the ship, he was pleasantly surprised to find most of them empty. Most of the crew must be on the poop deck either loading or getting the ship ready to set sail, he mused. He knew he had precious little time remaining then in his search so he quickened his steps.  
  
He passed various crew's quarters and several large rooms where crewmembers could meet and comfortably play cards or read. At one intersection he even came across a corridor that was not quite so void of life. Two guards stood before an open door at the end of the companionway. From that door he could hear voices although he could not make out what they were saying. He was just about to rush across the open space of corridor when a scream from the room stopped him dead in his tracks. Both guards snapped to immediate attention as a third man appeared in the doorway.  
  
"The bandages have dried upon the wound," Passepartout heard the man exclaim. "I must have water to soak them off."  
  
"We are not permitted to leave our post." One of the guards replied matter-of-factly.  
  
"He will die if I don't clean that wound."  
  
"Then let him die," the other guard replied. "We have no need of his foul presence aboard our ship."  
  
"I'd dare say your boss would have something to say about that."  
  
Just then the man in the doorway glanced up and his eyes met Passepartout's. The valet thought of fleeing, but something held him there, his legs unwilling to carry him on. He stared like a deer caught in the light of the torch of a hunter.  
  
"You there!" The man called out and the guards turned to follow his gesture. "Bring my a bucket of clean, hot water from the galley! And make it quick. I have a dying man here!"  
  
I can still run, Passepartout thought. Just say yes and then run.  
  
But that same something that kept him from running before, kept him from running again. Instead he heard himself say yes and then he turned and headed back toward the galley.   
  
"What Passepartout be doing?" he muttered to himself as he clanged about the galley looking for a large pot. "Passepartout be dying if they be catching him here..."  
  
He found a large pot stowed in a cabinet above the sink and brought it down, filling it almost to the top with hot water from the tap. As it filled, he glanced about and found several clean cloths in a drawer not far away. The man - obviously a doctor of some kind - had not asked for them, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to bring them. Passepartout had seen his fair share of mortal wounds in his lifetime and they could be quite messy.  
  
He shoved the cloths in the pocket of his apron and hoisted the pot up out of the sink, water sloshing over the rim as he did so. He would lose more as he hurried down the corridor back to the room, but there would be a sufficient amount left.  
  
The two guards eyed him as he came scurrying down the companionway toward them, but they made no move to stop nor hinder him. They simple stepped aside and allowed him to walk in.  
  
"Here is your water, sir."  
  
The man, the doctor, was sitting on the edge of the single bed in the cabin, his back to the door, as the valet walked in. Without turning he motioned for Passepartout to bring the pot over to him and to set it on the small table he had pulled over to the bedside.   
  
"Do you know anything of doctoring?" the man inquired.  
  
"I know some, sir."   
  
"Good. Then lend me a hand or this gentleman will not make it through the night."  
  
Passepartout nodded as he set the pot down. Also on the table the doctor had laid out bandages, several knives, and a few bowls of what appeared to be salves of some sort. At the moment he was bent over the patient, working at the bandages that were wound around the man's waist. The patient's vest had already been removed and discarded on the dirty floor and his white shirt tails, now stained a dark burgundy in places, had been pulled free. Most of the strips of cloth that had wound around his waist had been cut off save for two swaths that appeared to be plastered to his left side, both front and back, by dried and still drying blood.   
  
"I've gotten what I can of the bandages off the wounds, but the rest has dried. We'll need to soak them loose before I can administer to the wound."  
  
Passepartout nodded and moved around the table to the head of the bed. His eyes glanced upon the vest as he stepped over it and something caught at his chest. And it was with mounting fear that he lifted his gaze to the bed once again, catching a glimpse of the patient's face for the first time.  
  
"Master..." was torn from his throat before he had a chance to stop it.  



	6. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX  
In Which Fogg's Life Hangs In The Balance  
  
  
"Really, Miss Fogg, as I said before. We simply do not have the man power available to scour all of London for one missing man."  
  
Rebecca's face flushed in anger as she reached out and grabbed Chattsworth by the lapel, pulling him so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. "This is just not any man, Sir Jonathan. This is Phileas Fogg. And he would not be in this predicament if it had not been for your telegram." She let go of his jacket and shoved him away. "Now I suggest you get busy and call up all the agents in the area. Or," She stared right in to his eyes with a veracity Chattsworth had seen in only one other person - her cousin Phileas. "Would you prefer that I march right over to the palace and tell the queen herself what has transpired. Hmmm?"  
  
She stood there, waiting. Waiting as she had been for several hours. And she was in no mood to wait anymore. It was early morning and she was tired. But she would forgo sleep for weeks if it meant more time to search for her cousin. She and Marion Baeuvin had spent the better part of the night, combing the cemetery and beyond for any signs of Phileas and the men who killed Jackelton. They had come up empty. She needed help to search the ports and rail stations and anywhere else he could have been taken. Jackelton's murderers would be burdened with an injured man, which meant there'd more likely be witnesses to their passage. But the longer they waited the less chance they'd have of finding them within the city limits.  
  
Chattsworth was also tired and in no mood to be tossed about like yesterday's trash. He had been awakened from a sound sleep much too early for his liking to be told that his presence was demanded at White Hall immediately. He'd barely had the sense to dress properly before hopping into a carriage and being driven with break-neck speed to headquarters only to find the emergency pertained to the one man on this planet whom he would be all the more happy to never see again. To him, this botched assignment only lent validation to his thoughts that Phileas Fogg was a drunkard, a gambler, and very much a hothead - three things one should never find in an agent for her Majesty's Secret Service. Perhaps her majesty would come to her senses now and let him conduct this investigation as it should be conducted.  
  
"And what makes you think anything has happened to your cousin, Miss Fogg." He inquired with a rather bored air. "Perhaps the blood is not even his. Perhaps he injured the man who murdered Mr. Jackelton and is now in pursuit of him. As simple as that. Fogg will either show up with the man or not."  
  
Rebecca was wont to tell him that she knew the blood was Phileas's - of that she had no doubt. But she also knew that Chattsworth would never understand the bond she had with her cousin. Ever since they were children, one was always aware of the other. When one was injured, the other hurt. When one was heartbroken, the other consoled. When one was happy, the other laughed. And now she hurt - unbelievably so - for she knew her cousin was very near death, more so than he had ever been before. And pained because she had no idea what she would ever do without him.  
  
"I know the blood is his." She finally replied, breathing deeply to keep her emotions in check. "Phileas would never have left that alley of his own accord without his jacket or his sword."  
  
Chattsworth leaned on the top of his desk, "And you are positive of this, Miss Fogg. You would stake your career here at the agency on that?"  
  
She leaned on the desk as well, her face barely a centimeter away from his. "I am staking my cousin's life on that, Sir Jonathan."  
  
Chattsworth was the first to back down, as Rebecca knew he would. The man was a politician not a man of action. His appointment to the Service several years ago by Sir Bonafice Fogg had surprised her for that very reason. Sir Bonafice had explained to her that in today's society one had to take all things into consideration - including politics - and Jonathan Chattsworth was one of the best politicians in the country. Besides, he had gone on, it was inconceivable that the Queen would allow someone of Chattsworth inexperience to head an agency such as the British Secret Service should anything happen to him anyway. On that account he had been wrong, dreadfully wrong. He hadn't counted on the fact that his successor - his own son Phileas - would decline the offer, leaving Chattsworth as the only possible alternative.   
  
"Very well, Miss Fogg. I will give you a day to continue your search with as many men as I can spare. After that I'm afraid, we will have to give up. Even the Queen will have to admit that if he does not show up by tomorrow morning that he will not be showing up at all."  
  
Rebecca opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and clamped it shut again. It would get her absolutely nowhere to argue with the man now. But she was positive that after all was said and done, she was going to show him just how wrong he was.   
  
She nodded. "Thank you, Sir Jonathan. I will be taking the Aurora up to see what can be found from the skies. You will keep me apprised of your findings?"  
  
"Yes. I will have Boggsworth coordinate the search from here. The Queen has asked for an update on the investigation. I will hold off reporting to her until the morrow. But then, I'm afraid, I will have to turn it over to someone else."  
  
Rebecca deemed the remark unworthy of a comment. He was only baiting her, as he was always wont to do with her cousin. Phileas, however, had the sharper tongue, and could always rise successfully to the challenge. She was just too bloody tired and cranky to bother. So instead she turned and left the room, slamming the door hard enough to make sure the self-portrait hanging above his desk would tilt.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Jules Verne followed the League of Darkness ship as far as the dock would allow. And still there was no sign of Passepartout - either on the ship or on land. As he stood there watching helplessly as it coasted out of the harbor, a horrifying thought occurred to him. Hadn't one of the men said something about curious onlookers being thrown into the water? What if someone had actually been found on board? Would they have done something even worse? Here his imagination began to run wild - with thoughts of poor Passepartout being weighted down with something and being thrown overboard only to sink and drown!  
  
"Majestic ship, is she not?" a voice suddenly inquired from behind him.  
  
Verne twirled around then, once again expecting to see the blue uniform of the League of Darkness. Instead he was confronted by a gentleman in less terrifying dress. Although not dressed nearly as impeccably as Fogg, he was at least better dressed the Verne, which meant he was not a man of leisure, nor a struggling student, but possibly a worker in one of the finer offices in Calais. He was slender and fine-featured, with large grey eyes set over high cheekbones and a long narrow nose. But none of that stood out more then his hair. The color of ebony and shining like moonlight, it cascaded down to his shoulders and back in wavy ringlets.  
  
"Uh, yes..." Verne almost stuttered as he shook himself back to reality. "It's larger than any ship I have ever seen."  
  
The man nodded. "The same here. I noticed it here this morning as I came into the city for work. I could not help but come down to the harbor and catch a closer glimpse."  
  
"You have been here all morning?" Verne inquired.  
  
"Oui. For several hours."  
  
"Then you have seen all that has gone on?"  
  
The man smiled. "You are full of questions, young man. But yes, I have seen all that has transpired upon the ship."  
  
Verne's face flushed, "Then allow me to ask one more, sir. Did you notice anything unusual?" He would have preferred to be a little more discreet with the rest of the question, but he had precious little time to be anything but direct. "Say someone being thrown overboard?"  
  
This time the man laughed, a nice friendly laugh, and he patted Verne on the shoulder. "No, I have seen nothing of the kind. I did see several people who had gotten a little too close be thrown into the water, but they were all fished out. No harm done except to their pride."  
  
Verne was relieved, and he was certain it showed on his face. Passepartout had not been discovered and thrown overboard, nor was he anywhere to be found on shore. That could only mean that he was still onboard...for reasons he could not fathom. His only hope of finding out lay with the Foggs and the Aurora. Both of which he would have to wait on. He glanced up at the man and stuck out his hand. "I thank you kind sir for your time."  
  
The man smiled and took the pro-offered hand. "You are quite welcome, young man."  
  
And with that Verne turned around and headed back to the city where he would await the arrival of the Aurora.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"Excuse me," the doctor replied turning his head slightly to look at Passepartout, "did you say something?"  
  
Passepartout quickly, if not eloquently, caught himself and pulled his gaze away from the pale, familiar face that lay unconscious on the bed before him. He caught the doctor's eye and shook his head. "Only mon dieu, monsieur."  
  
"Yes, he is in dire straits I am afraid. Sword caught him clean through. And these b-stards only thought to bring in a doctor this morning. He's been bleeding all night."  
  
Passepartout took a seat on the edge of the bed, careful so as not jar the patient. He was wont to reach out and touch the man, to shake him, to make sure he was more alive than he appeared. For at the moment, except for his labored breathing, Phileas Fogg looked like a dead man on a bier.  
  
"What can I be doing?" he asked softly, restraining himself.  
  
The doctor sighed. What could they do? He was a simple practitioner, pulled out of his office by two men dressed in naval officer's uniforms. He was told they had a sick man on board their ship who was in need of urgent care. He was then spirited off to this ship with only his medical bag, which contained no where near what he would need to help this gentleman.  
  
The wounds were deep for the sword had gone all the way through. He would need his needles and thread to stitch them up - neither of which he had with him. Antiseptic to clean out the wounds once he got all the bandages off. They might be able to use alcohol - if a bottle could be found onboard. But that would not help if there was internal bleeding or an infection set in. The only thing they would be able to do for the man then was to make him as comfortable as possible until he passed on.  
  
He glanced over at the instruments he had laid out on the table. He had so very few to work with. But he could improvise. He would have to, if his patient stood any chance of surviving the day.  
  
"We need to soak these bandages off the wounds." He finally replied. "I will need a bottle of alcohol to cleanse the wounds. And since I have nothing to stitch them up with afterwards, we will have to cauterize them. I will need you to heat up these instruments - possibly in the kitchen - for this purpose. And then I will need you to hold him down for this will be very painful. After that, the bandage will need to be changed daily and some of this salve applied before redressing it. That is all I can do for him. He will need plenty of rest if he has any hope of surviving."  
  
As the doctor spoke he soaked a cloth in the hot water, wrung a good deal of the excess water out, then laid it very gently on the remaining square of bandage on the front of Fogg's side. The added weight caused Fogg to groan and he moved his right hand automatically toward the source of renewed pain. Passepartout quickly reached out and grabbed it, appalled at how cold and limp it felt in his own warm hand. He had never seen his master so weak and helpless, and it scared him. Scared him beyond description.  
  
"It will take a while for the water to soak the bandages loose." The doctor replied. He reached over and selected two long, slender, metallic rods from the tabletop then handed them out to the valet. "Take these and heat them in the fire until the ends begin to glow and then hurry with them back here. We cannot afford to let them cool."  
  
Passepartout nodded and accepted the rods. With mounting trepidation he left the room and hurried back to the galley. This time he found the room occupied with several men emptying boxes and putting things neatly away. He paid them little mind as he went directly to the fireplace and stoked up the fire. Several turned to watch him, but somehow he didn't care a chance. His mind was bent on one thing and one thing only. He cared very little what would happen to him now for he had meant exactly what he had said to Jules Verne earlier that day. His job was to take care of his master....regardless of the consequences to himself.  
  
As he shoved the rods into the fire a loud whistle blew, signaling the ship's eminent departure.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Rebecca had the carriage make one stop before continuing on to the Aurora. And that was at Number 7 Saville Row. Her cousin's London home. She had no idea what she hoped to find there, perhaps Phileas sleeping off a hard night with a story to tell of how he had captured the thieves and murderers single-handedly. How he had sustained an injury - "just a scratch" he would assure her - but that it had not slowed him down in his pursuit. And she would have smiled and humored him and demanded to see the "scratch" for herself. He would feign insult and tell her he was all right, really all right. And as always she would believe him. She always believed him, because somehow he always ended up being all right.  
  
And she prayed to God that this would be no exception.  
  
But he hadn't been there. Hadn't been there for some time for the mail was still piled up on the floor and the newspaper was still sitting on the stoop. She had automatically picked up the newspaper and mail and had placed them on the table in the foyer where Passepartout would see them the moment he walked in.  
  
Passepartout....  
  
She banished the thought from her mind before it caught hold. She would wait until she knew exactly what was going on before worrying the poor man. Let him enjoy his holiday with Jules. He deserved it after everything that she and Phileas had put him through these past several years.  
  
It was as she was leaving that her eye caught the address on the uppermost envelope on the pile of mail. It was a telegram from Calais. Nothing unusual about that, but the address stuck in her mind all the way back to the Aurora.  
  
She got out of the carriage and absently made her way toward the Aurora when she noticed a figure standing beside the door.  
  
"I thought I told you to go home," she exclaimed, almost angrily. "I can handle everything from now on."  
  
"I want to help," Marion Baeuvin replied. "I need to help. I somehow feel that this is partly my fault."  
  
Rebecca waved her hand in the air, "Don't be ridiculous. This is no more your fault than it is your father's."  
  
"Yes, it is, don't you see? If it hadn't been for me going into the tavern, you would have stayed outside with Phileas and he would not have faced those men alone."  
  
"If it had not been for you I would not have been there in the first place. I would not have been able to help him and I would not have a clue as to where he was or that anything had happened to him at all." She stopped and gave the girl a small smile. "So you see. It is not your fault at all. Now please go home so I can continue my search."  
  
"On this?" Marion asked, waving her hand at the Aurora. "Will you be able to steer it and search the ground at the same time?"   
  
While waiting for Rebecca to return to the Aurora she had taken a look around the outside of the dirigible and knew for a fact that someone steering it could not possible devote their time to an intricate search of the ground below.  
  
"I told you I can handle this on my own." Rebecca replied as she brushed past her to the door of the Aurora.  
  
Marion raised an eyebrow. "You're going to let your pride come before your cousin's safety then?"  
  
That stopped Rebecca dead in her tracks. She turned back around, gracing Marion's back with a some-what hostile glare. "What do you know of my pride?"   
  
Marion didn't need to feel the heat of the stare, she could hear it in the other woman's words. She turned slowly, unsure how far she could push this. "I know that you cannot possibly scour all of London and the countryside on your own. You are running on no sleep, I, at least, have had a few hours. And like it or not, I'm a part of this. I do care what happens to your cousin. If you don't take me with you, I'll just search for him myself."  
  
Rebecca almost dared her to try. What did she care if the girl got herself into trouble? She'd already told her several times to go home. She couldn't be responsible for every person who decided it might be a little exciting to follow her around.  
  
Problem was, she did care. And she did need the help - as frustrating as that was to admit.  
  
"Fine." she finally answered, turning back to unlock and open the door. "Enter at your own risk."  
  
Marion couldn't hide the grin. She had felt so ashamed at her own cowardice back in the tavern, now she would get the chance to make up for what she felt she had caused. For, despite Rebecca's comments to the contrary, she felt very responsible for what had happened to Phileas Fogg.  
  
"Oh, this came for you while I was waiting." She replied as she followed Rebecca into the Aurora. "It's a telegram."  
  
Rebecca turned, "From White Hall?"  
  
"No, from Calais."  
  
Calais? Who did she know in Calais? Who did Phileas know in Calais?  
  
She walked over and took the telegram from the younger woman's hand. As she looked at the envelope she noticed that it had indeed come from the same address. She opened the envelope and unfolded the paper inside.  
  
A smile crossed her face as she reread it, just to make sure it said what she thought it did.  
  
"Good news?" Marion said, hopefully, noting the expression on her face.  
  
"Very good." Rebecca turned and headed to the front of the dirigible, a certain lightness to her step.  
  
Marion followed. "We have a destination?"  
  
"Oh, yes. We're going to Calais."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Verne was uncertain of how long he sat at the café in Calais or how many cups of coffee he consumed while there. He even could have sworn that he had fallen asleep at some point. But little of that matter the moment he caught a snippet of the conversation at the table behind him:  
  
"What is that?" he heard a voice inquire.  
  
"It's one of those dirigible balloons I believe." Another responded.  
  
He jumped out of his seat, threw some coins on the table and scurried out of the café as fast as his legs would carry him. Once outside all he had to do was follow the pointing fingers to see the Aurora and the spot where she was bound to land. She was headed for an empty grassy knoll just east of the city.  
  
Verne ran as fast as he could through the increasingly crowded streets, hoping to reach the grassy knoll before Fogg put the Aurora down. He didn't want to chance losing them should they instead go in search of him. His heart was racing as he ran, not from the exertion, but from the anxiety of the situation and the relief that they had finally arrived. He couldn't recall being any happier to see the dirigible in his life.  
  
He reached the edge of the city just as the Aurora put down and sprinted the rest of the way, arriving just as the door opened. And he came to a sudden halt when a beautiful young girl walked out. She smiled at him and he somehow forgot himself in her beauty.  
  
"Jules, it's impolite to stare," came Rebecca's voice from beside him.  
  
"Huh...?" He jumped at the nearness of her voice and twirled to find her standing beside him. He hadn't even seen her exit the Aurora.  
  
"You're staring," she said with a smile. "It's impolite."  
  
"Uh, I'm sorry..." he practically stuttered in that way she found so endearing.  
  
"Quite all right." She swept her arm toward the other young woman. "Jules, this is Marion Baeuvin. Marion, may I introduce Jules Verne."  
  
Verne's face flushed as he stuck out his hand and she took it, warmly shaking it. "Nice to meet you, Miss Baeuvin."  
  
She smiled again and he almost lost himself a second time. But Rebecca gave him a small prod in the side, which brought him round before he made a complete fool of himself.  
  
"The boat?" she inquired, anxiously looking off toward the harbor. "Where is the boat?"  
  
"It's gone," Verne waved his hand off in the direction the ship and gone. "It left the harbor shortly after I sent the telegrams."  
  
She tried to keep the disappointment from showing on her face, but her lower lip trembled despite her best effort. Her heart started to ache again. She was unsure how much more of this pain she could handle. She took a deep breath, forcing the sob back down her throat. "And Passepartout?"  
  
"On board the ship...I think. He was only supposed to check it out. But I think he went on board because he wasn't on the dock when I came back. I don't know why he didn't get back off...unless he was discovered..." He let the rest of the sentence trail off, unwilling to lend voice to his worst fear.  
  
Rebecca bit her lower lip as it started to tremble more noticeably. At least Phileas would not be alone. "I know why," she said finally as she turned to walk back to the Aurora.  
  
Verne grabbed her by the arm and twirled her back to face him. "But how..."  
  
She looked him straight in the face and he noticed the tears welling in her eyes for the first time. A single one spilled down her cheek as she spoke. "Because Phileas is aboard that ship...and he is dying."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Passepartout had found a bottle of alcohol stored in the pantry while waiting for the rods to heat up and slipped it into the pocket of the apron beside his "weapon". It didn't take long after that for the two metal rods to heat up. He pulled them out of the fire the moment they started to glow and turned to walk out of the room. Several eyes turned to watch him, but again no one said a word. Perhaps it was best not to ask. Or perhaps it was the look on the valet's face as he met those stares. The look of a man barely in control of his emotions.  
  
He left the galley and proceeded quickly to the room where his master lay...how close to death, he could not say, but close. Closer then he had ever been.  
  
The doctor had managed to soak the remaining bandages off the entry and exit wounds, leaving exposed two raw and bloody areas. Passepartout stopped short as he saw those ugly lesions marring his master's smooth skin. They would leave scars. Very ugly scars.  
  
"Ah, you have returned," the doctor replied half turning at a sound in the doorway to find Passepartout standing there. "Bring them over here"  
  
Passepartout forced his legs to carry him forward, his eyes focused only on those two terrible marks. Blood once again flowed freely from them, drenching his pale skin, white shirt and the sheets beneath him. The valet swallowed hard, resisting the urge to vomit.  
  
The doctor took the rods from his hands and pointed to the head of the bed with one. "You will have to lift him up off the bed so we do not burn the sheets. And perhaps you should remove the shirt as well. It will be useless should he survive, the blood will never come out. And from the looks of him, he is a very meticulous dresser."  
  
Passepartout nodded to both the instructions as well as to the description - it fit his master perfectly. He walked around to the head of the cot and knelt down upon it, his knees on either side of Fogg's head, then he slid his hands very carefully beneath his master's shoulders and gently began to lift. Fogg let out a loud groan and moved his head, his body tensing slightly. Passepartout tried to ignore the groans of pain that followed, lifting until Fogg was almost in a sitting position, the back of his head resting comfortably on the valet's shoulder. Together he and the doctor managed to pull the shirt off.  
  
The doctor unstoppered the bottle of alcohol then held it very close over Fogg's stomach. He poured a little at first, a stream that splashed against his stomach and then rolled down his side. Fogg tensed and cried out as the alcohol played across first one wound and then the other, some dripping inside. He fought against Passepartout, but the valet held on, until eventually his master ceased struggling and drifted into silence again.  
  
Then the doctor moved closer, positioning the rods, one above the exit wound and one above the entry. He glanced up at Passepartout. "I need you to hold him tightly. If he moves, I'll end up burning more than the wounds."  
  
"Understanding." Passepartout replied, his voice barely above a whisper. Still Fogg's head moved at the sound of his voice and the word, "Passepartout" came softly from his lips. But then the rods came down - hot metal on soft tissue - and anything else his master might have said was lost in the scream that followed. Fogg's back arched as he continued to scream in pain and agony, the smell of burning flesh permeating the air...  
  
And then suddenly everything was quiet as Fogg's body went slack and his head lolled heavily against Passepartout's shoulder. The valet held back the whimper of fear that threatened to escape his lips and found his hold on his master tightening. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer.  
  
The doctor, having failed to notice the look on his assistant's face, pulled one of the bowls from the table and began to apply the salve inside to each of the wounds. Then he took some clean bandages and wadded them up, placing one on each wound. And as Passepartout continued to cradle the patient in his arms, he wrapped a length of gauze around his waist and fastened it with tape.  
  
"All right. That is all we can do for him now," the doctor replied. "You can lay him back down."  
  
But Passpartout was wont to let go. He would have preferred to stay just like he was until his master woke up and told him to fetch him a cup of coffee - two lumps of sugar, thank you. Or even a glass of claret. At this point he didn't particularly care which. Even "Passepartout, you're an idiot" would have brought a lightness to his heavy heart.  
  
But there was nothing. Just the raspy sound of his labored breathing as he struggled for each next breath.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"You're sure Fogg is on that ship?" Verne asked some time later as he was steering the Aurora out over the open sea in pursuit of the League of Darkness ship.  
  
Rebecca nodded her head. He couldn't see her face from where she stood at the observation window, spyglass glued to her eyes, but he could tell she was still very anxious. Her hand, hanging at her side, was clenched in a tight fist and her body was taut like a pulled wire.  
  
"I was not so sure before. But after I received your telegram I knew. I just knew" she replied. "He's on that ship and that's why Passepartout stayed."  
  
"And what do we do once we catch up to the ship?" he asked, already knowing the answer but hoping she had more sense than he gave her credit for in a situation like this.  
  
"We'll wait til night fall and then you'll hover over the ship until I get onboard and bring them both back."  
  
She didn't have more sense then he gave her credit for.  
  
"Rebecca, that's suicidal." he exclaimed. "That boat was crawling with them. And don't you think they'd have Fogg locked up somewhere tight?"  
  
"I may have to kill everyone on board that ship, but I will bring Phileas out of there!" she replied with a tone that brooked no argument.  
  
"And what of Passepartout?" he asked. "Don't you think that perhaps he's working on a plan of his own. One that won't be totally destroyed should you show up all of a sudden on a suicidal mission? You could end up killing both of them as well."  
  
"Passepartout is a good man," she said. "But he knows nothing of situations such as these."  
  
"Are you so sure, Rebecca? Are you so sure? He got on board that ship without being seen and he's still on it. And I know in my heart that he will do everything within his power to take care of Phileas. If there's a safe way off that ship before it reaches port, Passepartout will find it and he will use it."  
  
The fist unclenched and he saw her body visibly relax. When she finally turned around to face him he could see just how tired she was of carrying this whole thing on her slender shoulders. Yes, she could handle anything the Agency threw at her - even on no sleep - but couple that with the emotional stress she was now under, and anyone would crack. Anyone.  
  
"The boat has at least a couple hours head start on us, Rebecca." Marion replied as she came up beside the other woman and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you go get some sleep. I'll take over here and I promise you I will call you the moment I spot the ship."  
  
A small smile crossed Rebecca's face. "I don't think I could fall asleep even if I did lay down."  
  
"But you won't know for sure until you try. At least give it a try."  
  
Verne nodded his agreement. "She's right, Rebecca. Go lay down before you collapse. You'll be no good to Phileas if you can't function."  
  
Rebecca graced him with a tired look. They were both right and she knew it. She just didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to admit that she was only human.  
  
She finally nodded, her eyelids feeling heavy all of a sudden. "All right. I suppose you both may be right. But if I'm still awake fifteen minutes from now, I'm coming straight back down and I'll hear no arguments to the contrary from either of you."  
  
Verne grinned. "If you are still awake in fifteen minutes I'd say you weren't human and begin to worry."  
  
Rebecca actually smiled for the first time since he had given her the news of the ship's departure. She walked up to him, kissed him lightly on the cheek, then continued on towards the spiral staircase which would take her up to her room. It would be the last the two would see of her for several hours.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Passepartout heaved a heavy sigh as he left his master's room. He wanted to chance one last glance towards the bed, but fought the urge. It wouldn't do to let the two guards standing on either side of the door to know he cared at all what happened to their prisoner. The doctor had forced some alcohol down Fogg's throat for the pain and for the moment his master was sleeping peacefully.  
  
The valet walked down the corridor without a thought of his destination and soon found himself up on the poop deck for the first time since the ship had departed the harbor at Calais. She was going at a good clip now after having finally gained the open seas. The deck pitched and rolled slightly as he walked, her towers steaming, their metal shining brightly in the early afternoon sun. Sea gulls wheeled overhead, an aerial escort, their shrill cries cutting through the steady slap of water against her prow and the steady rumble of the wind. Passepartout clutched a stay, bracing against the roll, hair streaming in the breeze. It was almost exhilarating after what he had been through the past few hours: there was a pure excitement to sea travel that stretched his mouth into a smile of remembrance as he felt the spray of water dash his face and his lungs filled with fresh air. For the briefest of moments he was able to forget what was happening and just live for the moment.  
  
But only for the briefest of time.  
  
There was quite a bit of activity on the deck at this hour and if he wanted to avoid any unnecessary confrontations, he would be best to go below decks and find a place to sequester himself until he could chance another visit to his master's room.  
  
He decided first, however, to take a trip once around the poop deck and check out the lay of the land. To be as prepared as possible when the opportunity arose for him to get his master and himself safely off the ship - one hoped - before it docked in Egypt. Most of the sailors were preoccupied with the job at hand and most paid him little mind as he passed. Those who seemed to take noticed, noted the uniform he wore and figured he had probably come up for a quick breath of fresh air.  
  
As he walked the deck he noted several things. The crews' quarters and galley were all found in the stern of the boat. The pilot house and officer's quarters were to be found in the bow. Everything in between was taken up by the hold. He noted at least 10 good sized cargo doors along the poop. Whatever cargo they carried on to Egypt provided solid ballast, for the ship rode low in the water.  
  
But what cargo did she carry?  
  
There was only one way to find out. He had to get into the hold. Which would be impossible from the deck for each of the doors was secured with a lock and very thick chains. No, his only hope of discovering what was secreted below was to find the man door. So with determination he hurried past the pilothouse and started back towards the stern. Lunch would be served soon and if he was to keep his cover secure, he would have to act the part.  
  
And that fit in perfectly with his new plan!  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"Do you know much about the three bloodstones that were stolen?" Verne asked, finally breaking the awkward silence that had reigned since Rebecca's departure.  
  
Marion dropped the spyglass from her eye and turned around to face him. She nodded. "Yes. My father was obsessed with them and the crown. Anything he could find on the artifact he read and reread. It got to the point that I read them just to be able to talk to him."  
  
"The crown?"  
  
"The Crown of Souls. The three bloodstones once adorned it. You see, the original artifact was created by an evil magician by the name of Daglan for the Pharaoh Amenhotep. It was a crown made of gold and platinum and the three bloodstones were set on its crest. Daglan named it the Crown of Souls because it was capable of absorbing the soul of a dying person. Specifically the soul of a person the wearer of the crown has killed or whose death he was ultimately responsible for. Amenhotep wore the crown into all his battles, absorbing the souls of hundreds of thousands of people."  
  
She walked away from the observation window and began to pace as she spoke. "But it wasn't just the crown, you see. The crown was more an amplification device, which made it capable of pulling in the soul. The real power was in the stones. The bloodstones would contain the essence of the absorbed soul. So long as the bloodstone of healing was in the crown the wearer would never become sick. So long as the bloodstone of protection was intact, the wearer could never be harmed or killed. And so long as the bloodstone of Vitality was secured, the wearer could not be beaten."  
  
She stopped then and looked at him. "And the crown worked like a charm until the day Amenhotep's party was attacked. His horse was spooked and it threw him. As he fell to the ground the crown slipped off his head and was lost in the mist of the forest. He was not killed then, but some weeks later, as he led his troops into battle, he fell to an enemy's sword and died."  
  
"But what became of the crown?"  
  
"The attack in the forest had been planned by the Pharaoh of Cush in an attempt to steal the crown before Amenhotep arrived to meet the Cushian army in battle. It was successful. One of the warriors managed to escape the attack alive and deliver the crown to the Pharaoh of Cush. Once he had possession of the crown the Pharaoh had it immediately disassembled and buried in a ritual ceremony. Where it remained until an archeological dig found it."  
  
Verne nodded. He could now see why Count Gregory would be so desperate to get his hands on such an artifact. Once he had it reassembled, he would be completely invincible. And given it's mystical properties in healing he probably also hoped it would be able to renew his broken body.  
  
Marion resumed her pacing. "My father was part of that dig. He was there when they found the box containing the crown and he was able to decipher the hieroglyphics on it warning of the power of the crown should it ever been reassembled. Monsieur Mariette did not believe in all that hokum and quickly dismissed it. My father believed in it very much. So when he discovered the three boxes containing the stones he replaced them with three ordinary stones and presented them to Mariette. When he got back to England my father dispersed the stones to three separate museums."  
  
"The British Museum, the Louvre, and the New York Museum in the states." Verne ventured.  
  
"Yes. Which is where they remained until this week when all three were stolen within days of each other."  
  
"But how did Count Gregory discover that the three stones given to Mariette were not the three bloodstones?" Verne mused aloud.  
  
"Those stones were proven long ago to be just ordinary stones. Mariette thought perhaps the real ones had been stolen by grave robbers. He was only interested in the crown as an archeological find anyway." She shrugged her shoulders. "All would have been fine had the Louvre and the New York Museum not decided to pick the same year to tout their massive Egyptian artifact collections which contained bloodstones found in Cush. It was in all the major newspapers in both countries. I suppose if one had resources in both places and put two and two together, it wouldn't be that hard."  
  
"And if one knew your father was at the site, they would just naturally believe he had the third."  
  
It made perfect sense. Verne was well aware that the League of Darkness had resources spread throughout the world. Something of this magnitude would have been a mere pittance to them. And arranging for the stones to be stolen by museum workers wouldn't have been all that hard to orchestrate. It was almost a perfect plan. Count Gregory just hadn't anticipated the Foggs' involvement.  
  
Or had he?  
  
There were still so many unanswered questions running through his mind. Why hadn't his men just killed Fogg when they had the chance? Why go to all the trouble of having him kidnapped?   
  
Unless of course, Count Gregory had some other plan for him? Something they hadn't yet discovered....And than it hit him, hit him very hard. Fogg was a dying soul.....  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Jean Passepartout was pleased with himself. Very pleased. His plan had worked brilliantly and now he was standing in front of the open man door that would lead him into the bowls of the ship's cargo hold.  
  
It had been easy. Almost too easy. He had made it to the galley in time to help prepare the noontime meal. Then while every one was busy serving, he took a tray with several plates and silently slipped out of the kitchen. If he were to be stopped he would simply say he had been dispatched to serve the two men guarding the prisoner and had become hopelessly lost. On a ship this size, that would not have been so hard to believe.  
  
So here he was, standing in the doorway, gazing into the massive innards of the ship. He took a few tentative steps inside, glancing to his left and right for anyone guarding the wares. But there was not a soul to be found. It became quite obvious to the valet that the League felt no need to station guards anywhere but at the door of a very injured prisoner.  
  
As he walked about the cargo hold, his footsteps echoing lightly, he found boxes and crates piled almost to the ceiling and battened down with thick metal chains. But on occasion he would find a smaller stack and would wander over to check one out.  
  
In the first pile of crates he found guns. All makes and models. From pistols to rifles. And in smaller boxes beside them he found gunpowder and ammunition.  
  
In the second pile he found more boxes of gunpowder and dynamite and chemicals that could be used to make more explosives.  
  
And as he stood there, under the poor light of hundreds of lanterns reflecting off of thousand of boxes he felt a chill of terror run down his spine. There were enough guns here to equip a huge army. And enough explosives to blow up a major city.  
  
And it was heading straight for Egypt and into the hands of Count Gregory.  



	7. Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN  
In Which Passepartout Invents Edible Ink  
  
  
"I see it!" Marion exclaimed excitedly, pointing out the observation window. "It's straight ahead."  
  
Verne moved away from the "wheel" of the Aurora and moved over to stand next to her. She started to hand him the spyglass but he waved his hand. It really wasn't necessary. He could tell from this distance that it was indeed the League of Darkness ship. Only from this altitude it looked much larger and more menacing than it had in the harbor at Calais.  
  
"I don't think I've ever seen a ship that large." Marion replied. "Even the ships that cross the Atlantic are smaller."  
  
"Well, the League of Darkness never does anything small." Came Rebecca's response from behind them.  
  
Both turned to find her walking toward them. She had changed her clothes and freshened up. And she did look more rested. But Verne could tell that she had probably cried herself to sleep. Her eyes were rimmed in red and they appeared somewhat bloodshot. He felt it best, however to not mention anything - at least not in front of Marion.  
  
"It must have cost a fortune." Marion said.  
  
"Most probably a small one." Rebecca agreed as she joined them on the balcony.  
  
Marion offered her the spyglass and she took it with a small smile. Unlike Verne, she was very interested in seeing the thing up close. She put the glass to her eye and gave the ship a quick once-over. It was indeed much larger than any ship she had ever encountered. Well, except for the giant flying battleship they had effectively destroyed in the Americas. That had been Count Gregory's, too. She had heard somewhere that the mad man had had another one constructed and wondered why he hadn't used it this time. Too auspicious she figured. Especially if the Count wished his latest plan to remain a surprise.  
  
"You have no idea what she is carrying, Jules?" she inquired. She had noted the inordinate amount of cargo bay doors filling the entire center of the ship. It was almost as if the rest of the ship had been constructed as an afterthought.  
  
"No. And no one on the dock seemed to know either. I questioned several after the ship left the harbor, but they didn't know or weren't talking."  
  
"Hmmm." Rebecca reached up with her free hand and twisted one of the dials on the spyglass, bringing the image into a sharper focus. She played it around the deck again, noting that all the men on board were wearing the dark navy blue uniforms of the League of Darkness. And there were many men on board. She counted well over a hundred on the poop alone. That wouldn't include those who weren't working or the officers inside the pilothouse.  
  
And then her eye caught a man noticeably out of uniform. He wore white and he seemed to be wondering the deck aimlessly. She reached up and twisted the dial again and again until the man's face came into focus. And then she nearly dropped the glass.  
  
"Passepartout...."  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
Passepartout left the cargo hold with an overwhelming sense of fear and forbodance. Although he did not have the particulars, he knew enough to reckon that the Count had an ample amount of guns and explosives on this ship to equip an army to take over a small country. Or maybe not so small. As far back as he could recall, Count Gregory was not known to think small.  
  
But what was he supposed to do with this newfound knowledge? He could not discuss it with his master, and Miss Rebecca and Master Jules were several hundred miles back in France and England. There was really nothing he could do. He was only one man and this was a very big ship.  
  
He wandered aimlessly for a while, deep in thought, and like earlier this morning, found himself back up on the poop deck. He breathed in deeply as he walked, feeling the roll of the ship beneath his feet and listening to the sound of the water as it slapped against the hull. It had been a long time since he had been on board a ship this large. A very long time indeed.   
  
He continued around the ship until he stopped at the stern-most rail and leaned against it. He could not be seen back here unless someone else came around the building which was highly unlikely since there was nothing here save for the rail he was now leaning against. At this point he really wished he had taken the bottle of liquor with him.   
  
"Passepartout get good and drunk and forgetting this happening." He mused to himself.  
  
But he could not and he would not. He had been in the employ of Phileas Fogg long enough to know what drinking a little too much could do to a person. And it would certainly not help in this situation.  
  
He sighed heavily and looked heavenward, saying another silent prayer....and stopped dead in his tracks.  
  
"Mon Deui !" he exclaimed, thinking the deity worked rather quickly.  
  
For up in the sky, barely visible through the clouds, was the Aurora.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"Passepartout?" Verne exclaimed, his heart racing. "Where?"  
  
Rebecca handed him the spyglass. "Look stern. He's dressed in white."  
  
Verne grabbed the glass and put it to his eyes, focusing on the area that she had pointed out. He waited for his eyes to adjust and then he saw the valet. Passepartout suddenly glanced up, almost as if he knew they were there, and then he saluted.  
  
A smile crossed Verne's face. "He can see us, Rebecca."  
  
Rebecca ran into the parlor and grabbed the other spyglass. "How can you be so sure?" she asked as she came up beside him again and focused her own. She was in time to see the valet wave. "Ah....Yes, I suppose he can."  
  
"If only there was some way to communicate!" Verne exclaimed. He searched his mind, knowing there must be something they could do to get a message to the man. And then he got it. "Morris Code! We could use a mirror to send him a coded message!"  
  
Rebecca dropped her glass with a sigh. "Highly impractical, Jules. If we were to catch the sun in any way, every eye on that deck would be looking upward. Clouds or no clouds. And then we would lose the element of surprise."  
  
At least she was beginning to think rationally, Verne thought. Which was a whole lot better than her suicidal plan of this morning.  
  
"What do we do now then?" Marion inquired.  
  
Verne looked over at Rebecca. She caught his eye and crossed her arms. "Well, Passepartout knows we are here now. If there is someway to get a message to us, he will. I'll wait til this evening. If we get nothing, I am going down there, Jules."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Passepartout stood staring up at the Aurora for the longest of moments. His emotions ranging between happiness, relief, and terror. While he was relieved and quite happy that his friends had arrived and he was no longer alone, he could not quite shake the terrible fear that Miss Rebecca knew about his master's condition and that she was about to do something very stupid because of it.  
  
He had to find a way to communicate what he had found while on board and he would have to do it quickly. And if he didn't want Miss Rebecca to come charging down herself, he would also have to come up with a plan to get his master and himself off the boat  
  
Like Verne he thought of sending a message by Morris Code. But like Miss Rebecca he rejected the idea because a flash of light would attract unwanted attention. He was searching his mind for other possible alternatives when his eyes fell upon the tray of food he had absently brought back up with him. And a smile crossed his face. It would be a bit messy, but definitely worth the trouble if it worked.  
  
He dropped down to a squat and picked up a bowl from the first plate. Lunch this afternoon had been nothing special. An assortment of sandwiches, a bowl of soup, and a croissant. There was also a small bowl filled with a gourmet-style type of fruit topping for the croissant. As he examined it, he found it's substance thick and almost gel-like. Perfect for a washable ink.  
  
He stood up and walked over to the backside of what would have been the first floor of the crew's quarters. It was the only side of the building without windows that - for the moment - gave him the privacy to do what he was about to attempt. There was only enough "ink" for a few words so he would have to be brief and decisive. He felt the need to let them know about his master that he hoped would keep Miss Rebecca from doing anything rash. And he needed to have them hold off on any action until he could figure out what to do. If they fired on the ship from the Aurora they could very well blow up the ship and themselves right out of the sky. And they couldn't bring the Aurora low enough to use the wench to come aboard without risking the chance of being spotted. And if they were spotted, security around Mister Fogg would make it impossible to free him.  
  
He dipped two fingers in and wrote as largely as he could:  
  
Fogg alive. Wait  
  
He dropped the first bowl onto the tray and picked up the second and continued writing:  
  
for my signal.  
  
And that was the end of the "ink".   
  
* * * * * * *  
  
"What was that you said about a message, Rebecca?" Verne inquired with a huge grin as he watched Passepartout work.  
  
Rebecca looked over at him then turned and put her own spyglass up to her eye. She felt a stirring in her heart and a small chuckle of relief escaped her lips.  
  
"What is it?" Marion asked. To her naked eye, all the men on the ship looked liked ants crawling over the tiny deck. But she could tell by the expression on both their faces that something indeed was happening below.  
  
Verne handed her his spyglass. "Looked at the stern of the boat."  
  
She put the glass up to her eye and trained it on the rear of the ship. She could see an older, bearded man all dressed in white, standing at the rail of the ship. Beyond him was a one-story steel building, painted white, with a short six-letter message. A smile crossed her face as she read it.  
  
"I think I may have underestimated our Passepartout." Rebecca commented.  
  
"It won't be the first time," Verne agreed. For they had all at one time or another underestimated the valet's immense expanse of knowledge and experience.  
  
Marion glanced over at the pair. "So we wait for his signal?"  
  
Rebecca nodded. "We wait for his signal."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Passepartout had no way of knowing whether or not those in the Aurora could or had read his message. He only knew he could little afford to leave it up for much longer. If he were found here and now, there would be no telling of the fates that were held in the balance. So taking the glasses of water from the tray, he quickly washed all traces of the message from the building. Then stepping all the way back to the railing, he checked to make sure not a spot remained.   
  
The surface practically shimmered in the sunlight. He smiled, hearing Mr. Fogg's voice in his head saying, "Excellent job indeed, Passepartout."  
  
But the smile vanished just as quickly as it had spread. He only hoped to be able to hear those words again from his master. The doctor had not been so positive about his master's chances for recovery. He had said the loss of blood had been considerable. Passepartout did not have to be a doctor to see that for himself. The bed sheets had been drenched with his blood, as were his clothes, and the bandages that had been wrapped around him. He could not recall ever having seen that much blood. And his master laying in that bed, pale as a ghost, his lungs wheezing for want of air.  
  
He was afraid to go back into that room. Afraid of what he might find once he got there. But he would never forgive himself if he let his master die: alone, in a cold, dingy cabin, surrounded by such evil men.  
  
He bent over and picked up the tray and then tossed it over the edge of the railing. It was long past lunch and he would look suspicious now carrying it around with him. With a sigh he wiped his hands on the apron, then started around the building and inside, heading for the galley where he hoped to make a mild broth for his master to eat. Or a glass of water if he could not.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"Please, Rebecca, you will wear a hole in the floor if you continue to pace so," Verne exclaimed, having watched her walk the expanse of the floor between the observation window and the kitchen at least fifty times. The clicking of her heels on the wooden floor was driving him to distraction and the look on her face worried him.  
  
"I do so despise waiting, Jules," she replied. "I was never really any good at it."   
  
"Must be a Fogg trait." Verne muttered. Phileas had the same problem, although he had mellowed somewhat with age and experience.  
  
Rebecca heard him and gave a little laugh. "Fogg curse more like it. I dare say it's gotten us into our fair share of trouble."  
  
"I dare say." Verne agreed, glancing up at her with a small smile on his face.  
  
"Oh, all right, Jules." She stopped mid stride in the middle of the parlor, twirled around and walked back to the observation window where she planted herself in the chair she had pulled up earlier.  
  
Verne shook his head and went back to reading from the pile of papers spread out on the table before him. They were Fogg's notes on the investigation of the robbery at the British Museum as well as reports from America and France on theirs. He had just glanced through them but found nothing useful. It was the papers written by Lord Marcus Baeuvin that simply fascinated him. His own personal notes on the Crown of Souls and the three bloodstones themselves. A great deal of what he read corresponded with what Marion had told him earlier. But Baeuvin had a theory or two of his own that he hadn't either shared with his daughter or she had deemed unnecessary to tell him.  
  
Verne had gotten the distinct feeling that Marion didn't really believe in the Crown of Souls or the power of the bloodstones. Like most people she probably considered it the stuff of myth and legend. Her father, however, had not. He actually believed that the crown was a powerful, mystical relic and was quite capable of doing what it was believed to have done. Verne had his doubts. But being a man of science, the thought of such an object enthralled him. There had to be a logical, scientific, explanation behind the whole thing.  
  
"You're just like my father," Marion explained as she took a seat on the bench across from him. "Always with your nose in a book."  
  
Surely not with you around, he thought to himself as he glanced up. She smiled and suddenly the papers didn't seem so interesting anymore. He could sit and stare at her all day. Could watch the way the sunlight caught the blonde ringlets that framed her face. Or the way her eyes seemed to sparkle whenever she smiled. The way she held herself aloft, yet seemed so fragile.  
  
"There's nothing wrong with reading," Verne remarked, finally finding his voice. "I thoroughly enjoy it."  
  
"So do I, Mister Verne," she replied, "But there is much more to life than reading a book. I have come to realize that people who can, travel, those who cannot, read books. I would rather experience all that life has to offer instead of reading about it." She leaned forward, with her arms on the tabletop, "How long have you been traveling with the Foggs? I find it positively intriging. Dashing off to Egypt without a moment's hesitation."  
  
"It hasn't been all that romantic," he was quick to point out, memories causing a shiver to run down his spine. "Danger always lies around the corner when you are with the Foggs."  
  
Over at the observation window, a small smile crossed Rebecca's face. Yes, Jules, she thought, it always does. And I wouldn't have it any other way.  
  
Marion's face lit up, "Really? How fascinating. So this isn't just some mission gone wrong. This is normal fare for them?"  
  
Unfortunately so, he thought. He shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. "Normal I suppose in some ways. But this is the first time since I've been around that Fogg's been hurt. In fact, before today, I had always considered him invulnerable."  
  
Rebecca felt an ache in her heart. And so had I.  
  
"He does strike you as so." Marion agreed. "Very much in control of the situation."  
  
Verne couldn't help but note the way her eyes gleamed as she spoke of Fogg. The way her face lit up, and he felt his stomach roll. No, he whined to himself, not again. Can't I for once get the girl?!  
  
Rebecca glanced sidelongs at Verne. Seeing the pained expression on his face and knowing exactly what he was thinking, she suddenly got up and walked over to the pair. She graced Marion with a smile and put both her hands on Verne's shoulders.  
  
"Jules is being much too modest, Miss Baeuvin." she said. "If it had not been for Jules, on several occasion I very much doubt we would have made it home alive. He has become an invaluable asset to Phileas and myself."  
  
Verne half turned and glanced up at the older woman. She caught his eye and winked, then returned her gaze to Marion. "I really do believe that Miss Baeuvin would love to hear about that time Adrianna Locke showed up on our doorstep with that nasty little mummy of hers. If it hadn't been for Jules," a wicked smile crossed her lips as she recalled that particular mission. "Well, if it hadn't been for Jules' unique skills, Phileas would most probably not be here today."  
  
Verne felt his face flush as he, too, recalled that time. Although he would not have called it a skill.   
  
"Really?" Marion exclaimed, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "Do tell, Mr. Verne. I rather like a good story. And it will pass the time, no?"  
  
Rebecca giggled as she walked away. "Do tell, Jules. And don't leave out the details. They make it so much more interesting."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Passepartout stopped in the galley to find it clean and void of life. All the dishes from lunch had been washed and put away until evening rolled around and it would be time to serve dinner. Looking at his watch he realized that it would not be that long before his cooking services would be required again. He had spent much more time in the cargo hold than he had anticipated. If he hoped to spend more than just a few moments with his master, he would have to hurry.  
  
He found a bowl of left over broth in the icebox and put it over the fire to heat up. He then found a pitcher and filled it with water, pausing only long enough to drink a glass himself. He hadn't realized just how hungry he was himself, having only munched on a piece of bread all day as he was wandering through the hold. He found a serving tray and piled on another chunk of bread, cheese, the bowl of broth and the pitcher and a mug. He would eat only after having served his master.  
  
He walked through the corridors relatively unaccosted towards the room where Fogg was being held captive. Most of the cabins were empty save for a few where he spied crewmembers reading or writing. It wasn't until he neared the large room where he had assumed the crew would play cards and relax that he heard many, many voices. Or perhaps it was better to describe it as many, many grunts. He slowed his walk as he approached, unsure of what he would find.  
  
The room was filled to capacity with perhaps fifty men in all. All of the tables and chairs had been pushed back against a far wall, leaving the center completely open. This is where a majority of the men were standing. Some of them held weapons that they were wielding at other men holding weapons. Others were fighting in hand-to-hand combat while the rest were gathered around the tables examining test tubes and beakers.  
  
The League of Darkness training room!  
  
Passepartout suddenly decided that it was probably in his best interest to move on before anyone glanced over and wondered why he was just standing there with an open-mouthed stare. So he scurried past the open doorway and hurried on to his destination.  
  
The same two guards from this morning were still positioned on either side of his master's doorway. They both eyed him for a brief moment as he walked down the corridor, but said nothing as he passed by and walked into the room.  
  
He found the room the same as he had left it. Not having wished his master to wake up in a room in such disarray, he had picked up the bloodied vest and shirt from the floor and had folded them neatly, placing them on top of the wooden chest positioned at the bottom of the bed. He had thrown the bloodied bandages into the trash receptacle, and returned the small table to a spot in the corner of the room. It was this same table that he pulled over to the side of the bed again and laid the tray of food upon.  
  
With a heavy heart he lowered his gaze to the face of the man lying upon the bed.  
  
His master's usual sun-tanned color had all but faded to a pallid whiteness. There was absolutely no color in his cheeks, save for the shadows in the deepening hollows. His forehead glistened with perspiration and felt hot to the touch. His hands were cold and clammy yet the hair on his bare chest was drench with sweat and plastered to his skin. Occasionally he would murmur something incoherent, moving his head as if observing something or thrusting an arm out as if to ward off some unseen foe.  
  
Passepartout shook his head sadly. He highly doubted his master was in any condition to consume even the simple broth he had brought, but he knew he had to give it a try. So with all care he lowered himself onto the bed, holding in his breath, until he was settled relatively comfortably and not having caused his master further pain.  
  
"Master?" he whispered, loud enough for Fogg to hear but not loud enough to be picked up by the two guards at the door. "Master, can you be hearing me?"  
  
For the first few moments there was no movement from the bed. No sound. Passepartout waited patiently, yet anxiously, reaching out to touch his master's shoulder only after it seemed he would not awaken. Fogg moaned this time and moved his head ever so perceptively.  
  
"Master, I bringing food for you to eat. You must eat. Please be wakening up."  
  
"Passepartout....?" came softly from his master's lips, but nothing more. His eyelids did not flutter open nor did he attempt to move his head again. His next breath caught in his chest and for a terrifying moment the valet thought he had stopped breathing all together.  
  
"Ma.....mon dieu!" Passepartout gasped, catching himself. He instinctively grabbed Fogg by the arms and shook him. His master moaned and a hand reached out towards his wounded side. The valet grabbed that hand and pulled it back, placing it gently across his chest.  
  
Well, it was obvious to Passepartout that his master was not yet ready for anything to eat or drink. What he needed most right now was sleep. Perhaps he would try again in the morning when he came by with the doctor to change the dressing on the wound.  
  
What to be doing with all this food, he pondered. It seemed like such a waste. And he really hadn't eaten anything but that chunk of bread earlier in the afternoon.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Evening came very slowly for those aboard the Aurora that day. Verne had long run out of stories and Rebecca had long run out of patience by the time the sun disappeared.  
  
"Jules, I cannot just sit up here like nothing is happening!" she exclaimed as Verne attempted to appease her for the umpteenth time. "Despite what Passepartout says, I know something is wrong. I can feel it."  
  
"Rebecca..." Verne reached out to touch her arm, to offer some comfort, but she shrugged it off.  
  
"I wouldn't expect you to understand, Jules!" She went to put a hand to her pounding head when she noticed it was shaking. She balled it into a fist, smacking her leg with it, because real pain was so much better than the ache she felt in her heart.  
  
Verne reached out and gently grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. "Try me, Rebecca. Just try me."  
  
She looked into his eyes, searching them for the warmth and comfort she so desperately wanted but could not afford to accept. She saw undying friendship and love in those eyes that stared so innocently back at her. "I can feel him, Jules. Right here," she put a hand to her heart, "I always have. Ever since we were children. He's in pain and he's frightened. And I'm afraid I'm going to lose him...." A small, crooked smile crossed her lips, "Do I sound as crazy as I think I do?"  
  
Verne shook his head. For in the back of his mind he could hear Fogg's voice echoing her very words. "Rebecca is not dead, Verne. I would know it. I would feel it."  
  
He had known for a very long time now that there was a bond between the two cousins. Not just a bond of family, but something deeper. Something the two of them didn't even quite comprehend. Something the two of them were afraid of because it would mean changes in their lives neither was ready to make. At least not yet.  
  
Verne smiled, "But I do understand, Rebecca. I really do. We will get Fogg back and he will be all right. You are not going to lose him. We are not going to lose him."  
  
She looked at him, really looked at him. And then she did something he did not expect at all. She kissed him. "Thank you, Jules," she whispered in his ear as she pulled away and hugged him. He wrapped his own arms around her and held her tight, feeling her tears on the back of his neck and the shuddering of her silent sobs.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
For Passepartout, the evening flew by. There was dinner to prepare and then to serve and finally to clear away. This meal by far drew the largest amount of crewmen and it took a few hours to complete the entire process. By the time the last dish was washed, dried, and put away, the valet was ready to collapse from exhaustion. He simply could not go on anymore. Not only was he emotionally drained, but now physically as well. So as the rest of the kitchen help filed out of the galley, so went he.  
  
Unlike the regular men who bunked in semi-private cabins, the kitchen help were relegated to a few large cabins that slept eight in four bunk beds. Passepartout waited until the others seemed settled into their beds before finding an empty one and crawling in. He barely had time to pull the sheets over his head, listening to the others as they rustled about the room, before he was sound asleep.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Marion kept to herself for the better part of the evening. She had witnessed the emotional exchange between Rebecca Fogg and Jules Verne and had not wished to intrude. There was obviously some sort of connection, an attraction no doubt, for she had seen the looks exchanged between them. She had not heard what sparked the exchange, she had been in the kitchen preparing a light dinner, but she had come out in time to find the two kissing in the parlor. She had quietly placed the tray she was carrying on the table and then quickly backed out of the room.  
  
That had been an hour or so ago. She was now standing outside on the upper balcony, leaning on the rail, observing the nighttime sky. She couldn't believe that any place could be more beautiful than this place, right now. She only wished she had someone to share the view with. Someone to snuggle against in the chilling breeze as they gazed up at the stars. His strong arms wrapped around her to comfort her with his warmth.   
  
She smiled. Someone like Phileas Fogg.  



	8. Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT  
In Which Love Blooms  
  
  
Passepartout was awakened the following morning by movement in the cabin. He groaned at the most inconsiderate interruption and started to pull the sheet over his head. It was much too early in the morning to be up and about. It had been a hard day and a late night. Mister Fogg would understand his tardiness surely….  
  
Mister Fogg!  
  
Passepartout sat bolt straight in the bed as memories of the day before came flooding to mind. He barely missed clocking himself on the bunk above, having the presence of mind to duck at the last possible moment. The other occupants of the room turned at the commotion.  
  
"You will be late if you do not get up soon," one commented. "The captain does not take kindly to tardiness."  
  
Passepartout waved a hand of understanding. "Yes, I getting up now."  
  
"I do hope you plan on donning a new uniform," another replied. "You appear to have been through a war in that one."  
  
The other two snickered their agreement and followed the third out the door of the cabin.  
  
Passepartout glanced down at the apron he still wore from the day before and immediately understood the remark. The once white apron was now a dingy gray, stained by the dust and dirt he had kicked up in his investigation of the cargo hold. Splotches of food from his preparations yesterday added a splash of color across the gray. But most of all he was horrified to find dried blood smeared at the bottom where he had wiped his hands after helping the doctor. His master's blood.  
  
Memories of his master laying on sheets drenched with blood, his skin pale, his body lifeless, brought a shiver to Passepartout's own worn body and he found himself shaking uncontrollably. Had his master made it through the long evening?  
  
The valet quickly scrambled out of the bed and walked over to the single closet in the room. Opening it he found another white shirt and a pair of trousers. Hopefully there would be an extra apron in the galley for he most certainly could not wear this one again. He discarded the clothes he had been wearing in the trunk at the foot of the bed. With luck he would not be returning to this room for a second night, for he highly doubted he could keep Miss Rebecca from storming the ship for another day.  
  
Now, he must help serve breakfast and then find an opportune moment to sneak away to visit his master.   
  
The corridors were rather quite as Passepartout made his made to the galley. Most of the doors to the cabins were still closed and very little sound could be heard coming from within them. As the valet consulted his watch he found the hour to be just after seven, perhaps a little too early for the men to be up and moving.  
  
The galley, however, was a flurry of activity as the cooks began to prepare the breakfast meal and the servers prepared the tables in the dining room. Passepartout made himself busy in the kitchen helping prepare the food while searching through the supplies for the ingredients he would need later.   
  
Thankfully breakfast consisted of little more than eggs, bacon, and bread. A meal easily prepared, served, and cleaned up. By nine o'clock Passepartout was alone in the galley, free to prepare another meal for his master – one he hoped to be able to get him to eat – and a special elixir which he hoped would ease the pain somewhat.   
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
The dawn of morning found Rebecca standing alone at the observation window, her face pressed against the glass as she peered forlornly down at the ship below. She had long since finished crying for there was not a tear left in her body to shed. Jules, God bless his soul, had tried to comfort her last night. And for a few precious moments she had believed him. But her soul could not, would not be comforted. The ache in her heart had been unbearable and with every second that passed by she had felt it grow colder and colder.  
  
This morning, there was nothing there but an emptiness she could not describe.  
  
She put a hand up to the glass, feeling the coolness of it against her warm skin, and closed her eyes. In her mind's eye she saw darkness all around her. Through the blood pumping loudly in her ears she could barely make out the sound of voices. They seemed to be all around her yet the darkness made it difficult to discern exactly where they were coming from. In her blindness she stuck out an arm, searching for the touch of anything that would give credence to her existence. There was only blackness.  
  
Then pain. So much pain she could not move. Dare not move for fear of causing more. Every part of her body ached beyond endurance. She wanted to curl up into a ball, hide, and wait for the pain to subside. But it wouldn't.  
  
And with the pain, there was fear. Fear of abandonment. Fear of death. Fear of disappointing those she loved. But most of all fear of things yet unsaid.   
  
Her heart pounded heavy against her chest and she found her breath catching in her throat. She suddenly felt very cold, and her body started to shiver uncontrollably. She wanted to scream, "What's happening to me?!" but not a word issued from her lips.  
  
And then she realized it was not herself she was feeling, but Phileas. So strongly and so real. As if the two had suddenly become one. She also realized that she was drowning in his pain and in his fear. She was letting his weakness take control of her, instead of using her strength to take control of him.  
  
With every once of resolve she could muster, she forced her heart to slow, her breath to come easy. And as she relaxed the pain began to ease and fear to dissolve. Then she concentrated on the darkness, bringing happier, more contented thoughts to mind. Playful times at Shillingworth Magna. Like the time Phileas tried to teach her how to duel properly and she almost skewered him to the stable wall. The fond memory brought a smile to her face. And the darkness around her began to recede.   
  
Sunlight reflected off the glass window and bathed her in warmth and light and she opened her eyes.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Sunlight shone in a dust-filled band from the round portal set high in the wall, forcing reluctant consciousness on Phileas Fogg. It illuminated his face, filling his closed eyes with a fierce red that seemed to burn away into the nethermost regions of his skull. He groaned, reaching for the bell on the nightstand that would bring Passepartout with cool water to slake the thirst drying his mouth, or some restorative potion for the pounding that assailed his head. His hand struck a metal wall and the shock opened his eyes, wincing as the light struck louder gongs of pain from the templates of his confused mind. Squinting he saw that there was no nightstand, only a black painted metal wall, a small round portaled window admitting the offensive brilliance. He groaned again, tried to sit up, instantly regretting the movement as something ripped in his side with renewed pain that threatened to black him out again. He fell back, struggling to pin down memories that danced like fireflies through the tortured convolutions of his whirling head. He had been following Roland Jackelton, there had been a tavern, a fight….and he had been caught in the side with a sword.  
  
The League of Darkness.  
  
"Oh, gaw…." He mumbled, licking dry lips that refused to work properly. Where the hell was he? Not dead, of that he was certain. He hurt too much to be dead. So he lay there for the longest of moments, trying to decide whether he should just let himself slide back into blessed oblivion or strive past the pain and sit up. But then he heard a voice in his head - which sounded an awful lot like Rebecca - challenge, It's just a scratch, Phil . Get off your bloody arse and walk it off.  
  
And somehow he found the strength to try again.  
  
This time he took a deep breath, somehow managed to get his elbows underneath him, and struggled to sit up…And just as quickly gave up on that idea as the stitch in his side tore a cry from his throat and he fell back into the softness of the bed's mattress. Darkness ebbed at the corners of his conscious then, beckoning him to embrace her. She offered him sweet relief from the pain and confusion, a permanent abode from the discomforts of the world. He stretched out his arms towards her, ready to seek that solace, when another familiar voice brought him abruptly back to reality.  
  
"Master?" It whispered.  
  
Light appeared behind his eyelids as he floated back to full consciousness. Struggling to open them, he saw nothing at first but a formless paleness that hovered above him, only slowly taking on the recognizable form of a man.  
  
Passepartout.  
  
He tried to say the man's name. Longed to hear him say that he was really and truly there, for he recalled vaguely hearing familiar voices in the nethermost regions of his mind, could have sworn that Rebecca was right there beside him, whispering his name, calling him back, but could not tell if they had been real or simply the desires of a delirious mind. With what little strength he could muster, he reached out with his hand, and the apparition took it.  
  
"I am here, master." he whispered.  
  
Fogg blinked tears from his eyes, droplets of water running down the side of his face to wet the pillow under his head. "Passepartout…" was all he could get past his parched throat.  
  
Passepartout dropped to his knees beside the bed, placing the tray containing the bowl of broth and pitcher on the floor beside him. He released his grip on his master's hand, though neither was wont to break the contact, and quickly poured a glass of the elixir. Then he slid one arm under Fogg's shoulders, cradling the back of his master's head in the crook of his arm, and lifted him up slowly.  
  
"Drink, master." he said, setting the rim of the mug against Fogg's lips.  
  
Fogg drank eagerly until the liquid settled in his stomach where it immediately heaved at the abrupt intrusion. His body jerked spasmodically, sending ripples of renewed pain through every nerve and fiber of his being, and he coughed up a mouthful as a groan of pain escaped. Instinctively he curled into the fetal position, clutching at his wounded side. Darkness was there again, dancing on the edge of his vision, coaxing him to join her with promises of warmth and safety. He longed to follow her, to leave this pain and misery, but something was holding him back, keeping him from slipping back into oblivion.  
  
And in his mind's eye he saw Rebecca. Standing on the observation deck of the Aurora, bathed in golden sunlight, looking like an angel of mercy with her hair draped in waves around her face. She smiled at him and stretched out her own arms, whispering his name, beckoning him to hold on….   
  
"Master…master…"  
  
Passepartout had his hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently but with an urgency that bespoke his fear and worry. With great effort Fogg forced his eyes open again.   
  
"Master…I am sorry…"  
  
Fogg was wont to tell the man it was in no way his fault, but he couldn't get his mouth to work. His teeth were still clenched tight against the pain that would not subside, refusing to cooperate. He could only glance up at his valet…no, his friend…, a fuzzy façade floating across his water-filled eyes. A single tear ran down the side of his face.  
  
"You taking it easy, master." Passepartout whispered. "Hurt very bad."  
  
He sat for a moment longer until he noticed the pain on his master's face start to ease up a bit. His jaw slowly unclenched and the lines of his forehead began to unfurrow. Soon the tension in his body went flaccid and unfurled from the protective fetal position. The valet reached out and gently rolled Fogg over onto his back and off his wounded side. His master did not protest.  
  
"You are feeling much better?" he inquired. He had hoped to make the elixir strong enough to ease the pain, but not so strong as to render him unconscious again.  
  
Fogg opened his eyes, staring at the man before him. A man he had once been arrogant enough to consider only a valet, practically a piece of property to be done with as he pleased. But over the years that man had gone above and beyond the call of his duty as a manservant. He had become not only a trusted confidante but also a faithful friend.  
  
And now a savior.  
  
"Yes, much better." he said slowly. "Thank you, Passepartout."  
  
With his vision not so clouded with pain, Fogg was able to glance around the room again. There was not much more to be seen the second time around, except perhaps he noticed the two men standing in the corridor just outside the doorway. From what he could see of them, they both appeared to be wearing the uniforms of the League of Darkness. This did not surprise him in the least. What did surprise him, though, was the fact that he was still alive. And that for some very odd reason, Passepartout was here beside him.  
  
"What happened?" he asked, finally returning his glance to Passepartout.  
  
"I knowing not how you got here, master." the valet replied, "But I telling you how I did."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Jules Verne was not sure what he expected to find when he came down the stairs to the parlor that morning. All he knew was that he had definitely not expected to find what he did. The table was set for three and the aroma of frying eggs and bacon could be smelled throughout the airship. He stopped on the last step and peered around, half expecting to see Fogg sitting in the chair at his desk, newspaper in hand, and Passepartout coming out of the kitchen with a steaming plate of food. Instead it was Rebecca that came out of the kitchen, balancing a bowl overflowing with fluffy eggs and a plate filled to capacity with strips of bacon. She smiled when she saw him. An expression that simply lit up her beautiful face.  
  
"Why good morning, Jules!" she greeted him cheerfully as she moved passed him into the parlor. "I do so hope you're hungry. I seem to have made an over abundance of eggs. I was just simply famished and I believe got carried away."  
  
She sat both plate and bowl on the table then settled herself onto the settee bench opposite the stairwell. He watched in surprise as she picked up the bowl and shoveled a goodly amount onto one of the three plates and then selected a fair amount of bacon strips. He was simply amazed at the transition from the night before. He smiled, thinking, I guess my little talk worked.  
  
"Do have a seat, Jules," she said, glancing up to find him still on the step. "I really don't want to eat alone."  
  
He was wont to ask her what had caused the sudden change in demeanor, until he suddenly realized it had been awhile since his last meal and those eggs did look rather tempting.  
  
Then he noticed that someone was missing.  
  
Marion.   
  
He had looked for her upstairs where she had been sleeping in Rebecca's room, but the bed had already been made and she was not there. He did not see her in the parlor or the observation deck either.  
  
"Where's Miss Baeuvin?" he inquired, trying to sound nonchalant, as he moved to take the chair opposite her.   
  
Rebecca smiled. It had not taken him long to notice the younger woman was amiss. "She has decided to take her watch on the upper deck. Seems she fell in love with the view last night."  
  
Verne nodded as he spooned out a large amount of eggs on to his own plate and took most of the remaining pieces of bacon. "I didn't know you could cook." he remarked, shoveling the first forkload of food into his mouth.  
  
She glanced up with a wicked grin. "I never said I could."   
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"What of the stones, Passepartout," Fogg asked when he was quite certain that Passepartout had relayed all he knew of their current situation. "Have you any idea where they might be?"  
  
"They not be secreted in the hold. I searched the whole place."  
  
Fogg nodded, he had thought as much. No, the stones would be somewhere a little more secure than the cargo hold. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think, feeling that at any moment he might drift off again and fighting the impulse, as attractive as it might be. He was tired, gaw was he tired, but he could ill afford to be resting given their current circumstances. He forced his eyes opened again.  
  
"We need to find them, Passepartout. I cannot leave this place without them."  
  
The valet studied his master's face for a long moment before responding. Although the lines of pain that had furrowed his brow earlier had all but faded, the dark rings under his usually vibrant green eyes were still shadowed in fatigue and worry. It would be a long road to recovery, but Passepartout was certain he was on the way. If only he could get him safely off this ship and onto the Aurora. And if the only way to do that was to find those stones, then by God, he was going to find them!  
  
"Passepartout will find…"  
  
A scuffle at the doorway caused Fogg to glance up and Passepartout stopped himself mid-sentence. He half turned to find a man in an officer's uniform standing just inside the doorway. In one hand he held the doctor's black medical bag. He motioned into the hallway with his free hand. "They tell me that you helped the doctor with this man yesterday. Is that correct?"  
  
Passepartout slowly nodded his head. "Oui, monsieur."  
  
"Good." He tossed the bag at the valet's feet. "You will find everything you need in there. Tend to the patient again and then you will be escorted to the Captain's office. He wishes to speak with you."  
  
Passepartout swallowed a reflexive gulp. "Pardoning me?" he said. "Where being the doctor?"  
  
The officer gave a malicious little chuckle. "He was given the offer to join us and refused so we let him off the ship last night."  
  
Passepartout visibly blanched. He suddenly felt very sick to his stomach. Was there something he could have done to prevent the doctor's death? Something he should have said? Should he have taken him into his confidence about who he really was? or who their patient was? He should have said something. But he hadn't. Because he had been afraid that the man would turn him in. That he would have been the one they threw overboard. So he had kept quiet. Now the doctor was dead. And it was his fault.  
  
Fogg could sense the sudden change in his friend's demeanor as Passepartout instinctively tensed his muscles. Fearing that the valet might give away his cover without thinking, he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for the officer to hear, "Bloody b-stards."  
  
The officer glanced away from Passepartout as Fogg had hoped and glared at him instead. "You would be wise to keep your mouth shut. The Count's orders were that you be kept alive. He did not specify how alive."  
  
Fogg returned the glare, not the least bit intimidated. "Well, you can tell the Count that was the worst mistake he's ever made." He let the word "count" drip off his tongue with distaste and abhorrence.  
  
The officer laughed, but not entirely in amusement. His gaze shifted as Fogg continued to stare at him, unwilling to meet those piercing eyes that strived past the pain to convey venom and enmity. Finally he returned his attention to Passepartout. "When you are finished here one of the men outside will escort you to the captain." His boldness began to resurface as he concentrated on the submissive valet. "Make it quick or you will meet the same fate as your predecessor. The captain detests to be kept waiting."  
  
With that said, the man turned smartly on his heels and walked out of the room.   
  
Passepartout's head sagged after the man had gone. Fogg reached out and laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Passepartout…."  
  
The valet refused to meet his gaze, instead staring down at the bag sitting beside his feet. "It's my faulting that the doctor is dead." He mumbled.  
  
"No it is not, my friend."  
  
Passepartout stiffened at the familiarity and turned his head to glance sidelong at his master. Fogg offered a tired smile and squeezed his arm.  
  
"You cannot blame yourself for the actions of evil men, Passepartout. If you had told the doctor who you really were, he might have told the captain, and you would be dead. And the doctor would be resigned to living the remainder of his life as a slave to Count Gregory. I would prefer death to such a life."  
  
Passepartout turned away then, staring once more at the bag. "And what do you think the Count has in mind for you?" he asked.  
  
Fogg gave a little chuckle and settled back into the bed. "Since I am a betting man, Passepartout, I would bet my life that he plans on re-assembling the Crown of Souls and I shall be his first victim."  
  
Passepartout tensed and glanced back at him. "That not happening, master. We swooping the coup before that happening."  
  
Fogg cocked an eyebrow. "You have a plan?"  
  
The valet tapped the side of his head. "One is formulacating as we speak."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Verne found Marion Baeuvin on the upper deck as Rebecca had mentioned earlier, leaning over the balcony and taking in the view all around her. She half turned as the door shut behind him and smiled.  
  
"Have you every seen anything more beautiful in your entire life?!" she exclaimed, spreading her arms to encompass everything around her.  
  
Verne smiled at her enthusiasm. "No I have not." he answered honestly, although he wasn't talking about the scenery. She had borrowed one of Rebecca's dresses. The purple one that Passepartout had once commented didn't look quite right on her. The young writer had thought Passepartout a bit crude for making such a remark in front of mixed company, but Rebecca had never worn the outfit again. On Marion the color did justice to her fair complexion, highlighting the color of her golden tresses and the sparkle in her eye. This morning she looked absolutely ravishing.  
  
She turned again as he walked over to join her at the rail, a slight pout on her face. "You jest with me, sir." she replied.  
  
"I would never, Miss Baeuvin. I have honestly never seen anything more beautiful."  
  
She raised an eyebrow as she studied his face. It was a nice honest face to be sure, she thought. She doubted the young man had ever told a single lie in his entire life. "Call me Marion. I do so hate all this formality."   
  
"Marion," he repeated, liking the way it rolled over his tongue. "You can call me Jules."  
  
She giggled and he felt his heart skip a beat. "All right, Jules." she replied.  
  
He leaned against the rail, forcing his gaze downward, towards the ship they were chasing, because he knew if he continued to look at her he wouldn't be able to speak. "Well, you know all about me," he said. "But I know nothing of you. Except that you're the daughter of Marcus Baeuvin."  
  
She sighed, and turned to mimic his stance. "There's nothing much to tell really. I've lived a rather sheltered and very boring life, I'm afraid. My mother died when I was very young so my father has been overly protective of me. This is actually the first time I've ever been out of London."  
  
Verne couldn't help but smile. "My first time out of Paris was actually on this ship as well."  
  
She giggled again, like a soft spring rain. "Then we have much more in common than I had originally thought." She turned her head to look at him. "We are both romantics at heart, I think, Jules. Living our lives through the pages of books. Only you've had a taste of the real thing. Tell me, could you go back now to the life you had lived before?"  
  
"No," he said without having to think. "No, I don't think so. I've seen too much, been through too much, to ever go back to being what I had been before."  
  
"So what will you do with the rest of your life? Spend it here, with the Foggs, traveling the world and ridding it of evil?"  
  
He shook his head. "No. I've been writing it all down in my journal and I hope some day to be able to write a book."  
  
"A book?" she repeated. And then she smiled. "With a dashing hero perhaps? That travels the world in a luxury dirigible?"  
  
He felt his heart falter as she spoke of a dashing hero. Dashing was not a word one would use to describe Jules Verne, but it was a word that perfectly described Phileas Fogg.  
  
He swallowed hard, concentrating on the ship instead. "Or perhaps a dashing heroine." he replied, trying to cover up the awkwardness he felt.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Passepartout tried to contain the fear in his heart as he followed the League of Darkness guard through the winding corridors of the ship and across the poop deck to the officer's quarters under the pilot house. He had no idea why the captain should want to see him. He hadn't even made contact with the man yet. At least not as far as he could remember.  
  
Had someone seen him snooping through the bowels of the ship, peeking into open doorways and opening ones that were closed? Had he been discovered in the cargo hold going through box after box of guns and explosives? Had someone discovered his message to the occupants of the Aurora?  
  
All these thoughts raced through his head as he walked, keeping his eyes straight ahead, not daring to look at the faces of the sailors as he passed.  
  
Mister Fogg had even been at a loss for an explanation. But he wasn't quite himself yet and still not thinking quite clearly. Of course the elixir he had prepared had not helped much in clearing a foggy brain. All of this, one could imagine, would explain his horror at hearing the valet's plan of escape. Passepartout had thought it quite brilliant. His master had not used quite that word.  
  
"Passepartout, that is suicidal." Fogg had exclaimed, almost loud enough for the guards outside the door to hear.  
  
"Only if I not doing it right." he had explained as he pushed his master back down onto the bed. "You think Passepartout is really an idiot, master?"  
  
Fogg actually gurgled at the question, looking up at him with an almost comical look on his face. "Of course I don't…"  
  
"Then you must trust Passepartout to know what he is doing."  
  
Really, the plan wasn't all that….suicidal….Of course, if things did go wrong, they would be dead. But that made him more of a murderer than suicidal…which, when you thought of it, really didn't make much of a difference. He thought it best not to go there. It hurt his head too much.  
  
He had changed the bandage by then and had applied another healthy dose of the doctor's salve before redressing it with clean bandages. The wounds hadn't look any better this morning than they had the day before. In fact the one on the front looked to be taking on a slight blackish tinge which highly upset the valet. His master had laid still the entire time he worked, only once trying to lift his head to get a look at the wound.  
  
"Gaw, it looks as painful as it's beginning to feel…" he had mumbled as he dropped his head back down on to the pillow.  
  
To which Passepartout quickly poured another glass of the elixir and helped Fogg to drink it. This time it went down much easier and soon his master had lolled off to sleep. He thought it best to refrain from mentioning the discoloration, it would have only worried his master.  
  
So after he had set the new bandage in place he cleaned up and informed the guards that he was now ready to see the captain. Not that he really wanted to, but he could tell by their impatient glares into the room that he was taking much too long with a man he supposedly didn't know.  
  
Now, here he was, walking down the corridor to face the captain.  
  
The guard took him through a series of doors into what appeared to be a waiting room of some kind. A door that had not quite been closed all the way off to his right lead into another room from where he could hear voices talking. He was told to wait here until the meeting was over. Then the guard left, presumably, to return to his post in front of Fogg's door.  
  
Passepartout thought to sit down in one of the numerous chairs situated around the room, but he was too nervous to sit. Instead he took to wandering around the room in hopes of finding something interesting to occupy his mind. In time he found himself standing outside the partially closed. And that's where he found "something interesting" to occupy his mind.  
  
He actually had to flatted himself against the wall in order to peer through the slit of an opening. From what he could see it appeared to be a meeting room of some sort, where a man in a captain's uniform was speaking to several officers seated at a large round table.  
  
The captain was standing before a large board where a map of the world was fastened. And stuck in the map were tiny little colored flags. Egypt and the whole continent of Africa was colored red. Asia: blue, Antarctica: green, Europe: yellow, Australia: black, North America: purple, and South America: white. Affixed to the upper right hand corner of the map was a corresponding legend. The red flags were considered first, the blue second, yellow third, white fourth, purple fifth, and green sixth. The black flags weren't even listed.  
  
The captain pointed to a spot on the map towards the southernmost region of Egypt. "This is the region of Egypt known as Nubia. This is our ultimate destination and where we will continue our training in earnest. The rest of our army is already there. Count Gregory has seen to their initiation as true League of Darkness soldiers by implanting the cortical globe studs, which our men will receive upon theirs.  
  
"Before we arrive in Cairo and are then taken onto Nubia, the Count wanted me to brief you all on what is to be expected. As you know, most of the men on this ship have only just recently signed on. Most of them did so because they were promised large sums of money. Others did so for the chance to get even with the governments they believed wronged them in some way. Their reasons are not really important. Once we arrive in Nubia, that will be of little consequence once the cortical globe studs are implanted."  
  
One of the officers cleared his throat and spoke up. "Does the Count actually believe he can control that large of an army at once?"  
  
"Yes, he does. With the recent modifications to the crown that was stolen from the Cairo Museum, he has been able to control the entire army already stationed in Nubia with just a mere thought or emotion. It's connection to the cortical studs has enabled improved amplification for large amounts of people as well as at a greater distance. From Nubia he was able to control our men dispatched to England, France and the Americas."  
  
There were a great many murmurs throughout the room and Passepartout found himself among them. This was not good news. Not good at all. Mister Fogg had made mention of a crown in association with the bloodstones. A very bad and powerful relic should it ever be put back together.  
  
The captain smiled. "Once the crown is completely re-assembled with the three bloodstones, our army of  
Darkness will be truly invincible." He walked over to the map and placed his pointer in the red area marking Egypt and the rest of the continent of Africa. "The Count has decided that this area will be the first we concur and inhabit. Provided the army is physically ready, the invasion should begin in six months time."  
  
"Surely the rest of the civilized world will not sit idly by and let us commence such utter destruction." a third officer replied.  
  
Passepartout nodded his head in agreement. That was a very good observation.  
  
"The Count has made provisions for those countries who would wish to intercede with his plans. Suffice it  
to say that we have contacts in each of those governments who will be keeping their respective countries busy with more pressing issues."  
  
Passepartout's heart sank a little deeper. This mission was certainly much more than his master and Miss Rebecca could handle on their own. He only hoped they would come to the same conclusion.  
  
"As you can see by the colored flags, the Count has already mapped out the systematic domination of the major countries of the world. He has predicted that once the souls of the people of Africa have been assimilated by the crown and control of their bodies taken over by the cortical globe studs, he will have an army no other country in the world will be able to defeat."  
  
Passepartout suddenly felt very sick to his stomach. This crown was bad, very bad indeed. He truly felt the need to sit down so he moved over to one of the chairs and plopped down. Which turned out to be a very good move as the partially closed door to the meeting room was shoved all the way open and the officers and captain walked out. For a brief moment Passepartout almost panicked as the captain glanced at him, but then he remembered that the man had asked to see him and he forced himself to calm down.  
  
"Who are you?" the captain inquired. He was a very tall man, but then to Passepartout most men were tall, maybe slightly taller than his master, but much bigger in the middle. His uniform fit him a little too snuggly in the mid-section, suggesting a love for fine foods. He did not have an entirely mean looking face, but one that looked to brook no disputes of his authority. His greying hair suggested he was perhaps in his late forties, early fifties, and his tanned skinned made Passepartout think he had spent quite a few of those years on the open seas.  
  
"My name is Jean, Captain-sir. The guard said you wanting to see me."  
  
The captain raised a brow, "I did?"  
  
"I was assisticating the doctor with your prisoner." he offered by way of explanation.  
  
Realization dawned on the other man's face and he nodded. "Please come into my office." he motioned with a hand at the few officers who were still discussing things in the room. "It will be less noisy there."  
  
The captain led the way through another door, opposite the meeting room, with a placard attached reading "Captain Ballentine". Passepartout followed, stepping into a rather small, but tastefully done office. To his left was another door that led into what appeared to be the captain's sleeping quarters. Ballentine motioned for the valet to take a seat, which Passepartout graciously did. It was while he was settling into it that he noticed a large ornate box sitting on the credenza behind the desk. He would have paid it little mind had it not been for the large lock placed upon its delicate clasps. It was quite obvious that whatever was inside was meant to stay inside.  
  
"You are one of the cooks, non?" the captain inquired as he settled into the plush chair behind the desk.  
  
"Oui, captain-sir."  
  
The man nodded. "I was informed that you have been keeping decent care of our prisoner."  
  
Passepartout swallowed. "Oui, captain-sir. The doctor ask-ed me to."  
  
Ballentine leaned forward, placing his arms on the desk. "Has he said anything to you, Jean?"  
  
"Nothing comprehending, sir. He's delirious, I think. Talking about magical crowns and mystical legends. Shouting names…thrashing about sometimes. I have humored him,." Passepartout leaned a little closer and whispered, "but I think he is crazy, sir."  
  
A small smile crossed the Captain's face. "Yes, he is, Jean. Mentally unstable. He is a mortal enemy and not to be trusted. Is that understood?"  
  
"Oui, captain-sir."  
  
"Good." Ballentine leaned back in his chair. "You are to continue to tend to his wounds. He must live to see Egypt for our leader has great plans for him." He waved a hand towards the door then, "You are dismissed."  
  
Passepartout jumped to his feet and gave a slight bow. Then he turned and hurried out of the office and back to his little safe corner of the world. Lunch would be served soon and he wanted to think about nothing more serious than which side of the plate the forks went on.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Verne wasn't exactly sure why he decided to spend the rest of the afternoon up on the balcony with someone who obviously wasn't interested in him the same way he was interested in her. He thought perhaps it was the way she would continue to look at him sidelong, through the tendrils of hair that always seemed to make there way in front of her beautiful face. Or the smile that just captured his heart with its innocence and playful fun. Or the bright blue eyes that could not possibly get any bigger as he would tell her of the stories he was writing, had written, or would someday write. She would giggle, or gasp, or blush at all the right places and say all the right things that made him feel as if he could actually make a living as a writer.  
  
After an hour in her presence he decided he could live with the fact that she found Phileas Fogg attractive and exciting, if only she would consent to be with him for the rest of eternity. Yes, he could live with a heart divided as long as her body and mind belonged to him alone.  
  
But after an entire afternoon with the young woman he though he might actually have to get rid of Fogg. Not permanently of course. In any contest other than intellectual, Fogg could best him blind-folded. But if he could somehow get the older man out of the picture for a while he just might stand a chance…  
  
"Jules?"   
  
The sound of her lilting voice brought him out of his revelries and he turned to look at her. "Huh?"  
  
"What do you think they'll do with the crown?"  
  
Jules placed his elbows on the rail of the balcony and looked down at the ship. "The same thing the Pharaoh did when he had it, I suppose. It was made as a weapon of war. And Count Gregory seeks world domination which could only come about through some kind of world war."  
  
She imitated his posture, standing so close he could feel the warmth of her body, feel the touch of her hair as it blew softly about her face. "Yes, but that's assuming it really does do what it was reported to have done. I didn't give it credence when my father believed it and I certainly don't now." She looked at him sidelong again and he felt his heart stop for one terrifying moment. "You're a man of intellect, Jules, how can you believe such a thing?"  
  
He had to look away, or forever be lost to that glance. He swallowed hard, finding his voice. "I'm not sure I do. I'm not even sure Rebecca or Phileas does. But the Count does. And right now he has Fogg and Passepartout, the crown and bloodstones. Rebecca said that the Queen herself requested that Fogg retrieve the crown and stones. Knowing Fogg, he'll do just that or die trying. Regardless of whether or not he believes the relic actually works."  
  
"Then he will die for nothing."  
  
"No, he'll die for something. His duty and loyalty to England and the Queen."  
  
She looked away, up at the clouds floating by the Aurora, so close she could almost reach out and touch one. "I don't understand that, Jules. It makes no sense to me. Your being here trying to rescue a friend. Miss Fogg and Mr. Passepartout risking their lives to save a loved one. I understand that. But his willingness to die for an ideal such as duty or honor. That I don't understand. It's such a waste of human life. A hundred years from now no one in the country will even know he existed, yet he would die for it."  
  
"Fogg isn't interested in immortality. He could care less if he was remembered by anyone. But he will die willingly for country, Queen, friends, family, and honor." Verne thought perhaps he had just mucked up royally his plan for getting rid of Fogg.  
  
She smiled. "You admire him, don't you, Jules?"  
  
The question took him aback. "Wha…?…Yeah, in some ways I guess I do. But in others, no I don't. There's a lot about him I don't like. There's a lot I don't understand. He's a very complex man."  
  
She turned to look at him and he was trapped by her smile. "Unlike you, hmmm?" she said, sounding too much like Rebecca for his liking. "You're an open book, Jules. A person can see exactly what's on your mind and what's on your heart at all times."  
  
He just stared at her for the longest of moments and then he did something totally out of character. He bent over and kissed her. Not long and not hard, put enough to let her know he wasn't totally predictable. She didn't pull away as he had thought she might. Instead she reached up and cupped his face between her hands and leaned further into the embrace.  
  
And he was very glad he had decided to spend the entire afternoon up on the balcony.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
The afternoon did go quite as "interestingly" for Passepartout that day. While preparations for lunch offered a brief respite from the cares of the real world, he was still left with a feeling of hopelessness that would not diminish.  
  
There were two things he knew for certain though. First, was that he had to get his master off this ship. Second, was that this ship was never going to arrive in Cairo. Not if he had anything to do about it.  
  
So there in lay his problem. He had to find a way to get Mister Fogg off the ship and on to the Aurora without attracting any unwanted attention. It was a certain fact that his master was in no condition to walk without assistance. And a man, especially one dressed in civilian clothes, being propped up by another was surely to be noticed by everyone. So….he would need a diversion. A diversion big enough to draw away the majority of the League of Darkness men so that the Aurora could lower her wench and the two of them could be brought aboard.  
  
But Mister Fogg would not leave without the bloodstones. He had already made that perfectly clear. So, short of dragging a completely unconscious man off the ship, he would have to procure them before hand. And they were presumably locked up in that box in the captain's office. Which just happened to be connected to his sleeping quarters and the officer's conference room.  
  
Passepartout frowned and sat back on the bunk he currently occupied, leaning against the wall, and dropped his head into his hands.   
  
"How Passepartout getting himself in such things…" he mumbled dejectedly.  
  
His thoughts wandered back to the half thought-out plan he had discussed with Mister Fogg. The one his master had called suicidal. He could conceivably change a few things around to include nabbing the box. He would have to make a few revisions in his plan. But it was not impossible. Most of what he needed was down in the cargo hold and he could get the rest in the galley. He would also need to acquire a uniform. He would look less inconspicuous wearing a League uniform than he would a cook's. And then he needed the uninterrupted time to make everything…  
  
He smiled as an idea dawned. Of course. The galley. As he recalled the night before he remembered vividly that after dinner the cooks pretty much cleared out of the galley and retired to their rooms. No one else would have reason to be in the galley save for a cook so he wouldn't have to worry about being discovered by a League man. And if he was questioned for some reason, he could just say he was preparing something special for the next day. He made a mental note to whip up something just in case….  
  
Then there was the matter of timing. Late evening would be the best time to slip Mister Fogg out, most of the crew would be sleeping and there would little chance of being spotted, but it would be the worst time for the Aurora as she would have to use her running lights to see them. Early morning might be a bit better if they struck before most of the crew awoke, but there was a better chance they might run into some early risers. Was that a risk worth taking?  
  
Passepartout rose quickly from the bunk and moved to the doorway, glancing out into the corridor. One of his roommates cocked a brow as he stood there, but said nothing. They had all discovered in one way or another that it was best not to ask questions.  
  
The corridor was empty; most of the League men were either on duty up on the poop deck or in the training room. He stood a very good chance of making it to the cargo hold if he left now and made it back within a reasonable amount of time. Dinner was not to be served for a few more hours. After that he would be very busy.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
As Marion finally pulled away from the embrace and glanced into Jules Verne's soft, warm eyes, she began to wonder what she had gotten herself into. Here was an absolutely adorable young man, intelligent and very caring, who seemed completely captivated by her, yet her mind could not help but wonder what it would be like to kiss Phileas Fogg. The two men were so opposite each other yet she found both so extremely attractive.  
  
Jules in all his innocence would be very faithful she knew. He would always be there for her. She would never have to worry where she stood with him. In his eyes she would be number one. Stability was something most women longed for. And in Jules Verne she would have that. Physically he was a handsome young man, with his curly chocolate brown hair and wide brown eyes. He was not very tall, barely an inch or two above her as they stood facing each other on the balcony, but he was nicely built. And he was young, perhaps a year or two older than herself, which meant a long life together.  
  
But her mind could not completely dismiss Phileas Fogg. She could still remember how he had made her heart stop the moment their eyes had met. How she could barely hear through the blood pounding in her ears. He was absolutely captivating in his beauty. Tall, roguish, with a disarming smile that could melt the coldest of hearts. Yet, she knew there would be no stability in her life with him. She would not be number one for Queen and country would always be a border between them. And he was older then she. Would he still want children should he decide to settle down in the future?  
  
As she considered all this, her mind told her she had only one choice – Jules Verne. Her body told her – Phileas Fogg. Yet her heart could not decide between them.   
  
Still there was something she had never taken into consideration.  
  
"Jules?" she asked.  
  
"Hmmm?" he replied, still looking deeply into her eyes with a dreamy look on his boyish face.  
  
"Why did you kiss me?"  
  
He blinked at her. "Pardon me?"  
  
"Why did you kiss me?" she asked again.  
  
His face flushed slightly, and he stuttered slightly as he spoke. "Well, I thought…maybe…well, I thought… perhaps…" He took a deep breath, "Because I like you and…"  
  
She reached out and placed her hands on the lapel of his jacket and he stopped. "I didn't mean to embarrass you, Jules. It's just that I saw you and Rebecca Fogg kissing last night and I don't want to be a third party."  
  
His eyes widened, he'd had no idea she had even been in the room last night. Although it did explain the mysterious appearance of the tray full of sandwiches. "Me and Rebecca? No no no. There's nothing between us. That was just a friendly kiss. Rebecca can be very affectionate that way."  
  
She raised her eyebrows, looking into his eyes. "Are you so certain?"  
  
He nodded, never so sure of anything in his entire life. "She's a friend. Just a friend."  
  
She smiled again, relieved. If there was one woman on earth she did not want to compete with, it was Rebecca Fogg. "Good. I'm glad." She moved in closer so that there was barely a hair's breadth between them. "Do you want to kiss me again?" She asked, because she so much wanted him to.  
  
He nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do…."  
  
She didn't wait for him to finish. She slid her hands from his lapels up to his neck and pulled him into another embrace. As their lips met she felt his hands slide around her waist and hold her tight.  
  
And then suddenly something crashed behind them and they both jumped with fright. Half turning around they found Rebecca Fogg standing in the open doorway, a very happy smile on her beautiful face. The smile did not falter as she glanced at them and the clutch she had found them in.  
  
"So sorry for the interruption, Jules," she said, trying her best not to laugh. "But there's something I think you should see."  
  
Verne quickly released his hold on Marion and pulled back as Rebecca strode forward. He was not sure if he was embarrassed about being caught with Marion or because they had been caught by Rebecca. Despite what he had said about Rebecca just being a friend, he did find her incredibly attractive and very desirable.  
  
"What is it?" he asked, finally finding his voice.  
  
She handed him one of the spyglasses and pointed over the side of the rail. "Passepartout has sent another message."  
  
He took the glass and turned to follow her pointed finger. Sure enough there was another message written on the back of the building. The words dawn and here were written in what appeared to be the same substance as the earlier message.  
  
Verne grinned and turned to look at Rebecca, her face almost radiant with excitement.  
  
"Come, Jules," she said, her smile widening, " We've got some work to do before dawn."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
That evening went incredibly quickly for both the occupants of the Aurora as well as for Passepartout.  
  
While Marion kept a constant vigil on the balcony above, Rebecca and Verne readied the wench and everything else they thought might be necessary for the dawn rescue.  
  
Passepartout was busy himself in the galley of the ship preparing the things he would need for the dawn escape. As he had hoped, very few people noticed his absence nor questioned his presence in the galley at such a late hour. Upon closer examination, he appeared to be actively engaged in the preparation of some exquisite meal, which the crew in no way wanted to interrupt.  
  
Later that night he slipped out of the galley, donned a League uniform he had pilfered from the laundry area, and set about carefully placing his volatile preparations in anticipation of an explosively interesting morning.  
  
An hour before dawn he was back in the galley, mixing another glass of his special elixir for Mister Fogg, and drinking an entire pot of coffee in order to boost his confidence as well as his wakefulness.  
  
Then ever so slowly the sun's rays began to rise over the horizon  
  
  



	9. Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE  
In Which Our Heroes Are Reunited   
  
  
  
Passepartout had changed back into his white uniform and was slowly walking up the corridor toward the captain's office. Every now and then he would nonchalantly glance back over his shoulder, looking. His heart was pounding hard in his chest and he felt very much sick to his stomach. Everything now was just a matter of timing...good or bad.  
  
He had just about reached the captain's door when he spotted the first tendrils of grey smoke snaking up the corridor behind him. Without another thought he stepped into the waiting room between the captain's office and the conference room. He had only a few moment's time to establish his presence. A young man in an officer's uniform glanced up at him from the desk in the center of the room.   
  
"May I help you?" he asked with a somewhat bored, or perhaps still sleepy, tone.   
  
"I am Jean." Passepartout replied, trying to keep his voice even, despite the fear he felt. "The captain asked to be informed of any developments in the condition of the uh....prisoner. I am here to make a report."   
  
The man stifled a yawn. "It is rather early, cook. The captain has not yet arisen from his..."   
  
Suddenly a shout of "Fire in the hold!" rang out through the corridor outside. The young officer's face lost all color and he jumped to his feet with a "My god." Passepartout tried to look quizzical.   
  
The corridor was soon filled with League of Darkness officers in variance stages of dress running through the thickening grey smoke towards the stairwell that would take them down into the hold. The young officer at the desk ran through the open door of the captain's office and shortly thereafter Passepartout could hear pounding. A few short moments later the young officer came back out with the Captain in tow. Both men looked to Passepartout.   
  
"He came to make a report about the prisoner." the young officer responded to the captain's unasked question.  
  
Ballentine was pulling on his shoes as they walked. "Stay here until I see what all this ruckus is about."   
  
And with that said the two men hurried out the door and into the smoky corridor.   
  
Passepartout grinned. His plan had worked beautifully. Or at least the first part had. Knowing he had precious little time to gloat at the moment, he slipped through the door to the captain's office and walked in. The ornate box was where he had last seen it, on the credenza behind the desk. He went over to snatch it up and almost threw out his back. The box was much heavier than he thought.   
  
"What to do now?" he exclaimed.   
  
The lock was not of the combination kind which the valet could have easily broken, but of the padlock kind. He would either need the key or something that could cut through the thick metal posts. Neither of which he had on him. Then a thought stuck him. What about gravity? Sometimes that worked best of all and it would require very little exertion on his part. Putting a little muscle behind it, he shoved the box over onto the floor.  
  
It broke open upon impact and three large stones tumbled out.   
  
Again the grin began to spread across his face, but he knew better than to let these few small successes go to his head. The hard part was yet to come. He scooped up the three stones and shoved them into his pocket. Now he had to get across the poop deck and over to his master's room.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Dozens upon dozens of League men descended upon the cargo hold of the ship, carrying buckets of water and blankets to smother a fire they could not locate. The entire hold was filled with grey smoke that stung their eyes and made their throats constrict. They were constantly bumping into each other, or worse still, the boxes of weapons and ammunition. Thankfully they were tied down rather secure and the contents remained undisturbed.   
  
Save for a small box of dynamite that somehow wriggled lose during the two-day journey and was now being helpless dashed about by feet that could not see where they were going. The box tipped over and sticks of explosives were scattered across the floor.   
  
And one particular little stick managed to roll just a little too close to the small contained fire Passepartout had set in the far corner of the cargo hold.   
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Passepartout scurried across the poop deck as quickly as he possibly could without attracting too much unwanted attention. He needn't have worried, though, for the few people who were still topside were in the pilothouse casting uneasy glances down the corridor where grey smoke was just making its way up. The valet had stopped on his way passed to inform them quite worriedly that there was a fire in the cargo hold. They had been too disturbed to ask where he was going as he hurried on past.   
  
As he walked the expanse of the deck he would periodically pull a small cylindrical-shaped object from his apron pocket and toss it in the vicinity of the cargo hold doors. A few seconds after he passed a billow of grey smoke would erupt until it appeared quite convincingly that the smoke from the fire had made it's way upward. For all intense and purposes it seemed the fire below was raging out of control.   
  
He finally reached the building at the opposite end of the ship and slipped inside. The kitchen crew were already in the galley preparing breakfast, completely oblivious to the commotion going on below, until Passepartout ran down the corridors screaming "Fire in the hold!" at the top of his lungs. Soon the corridors were a mass of running or fleeing bodies.   
  
He soon joined the running crew of League men as they hurried to the hold to lend their   
assistance. They were all quite aware of what cargo the ship held and what would happen to them should that cargo catch fire. But as they neared the corridor where his master was being held he forcibly slowed down and pulled himself free of the dashing mob.   
  
So far his plan was working brilliantly. Now he had to deal with the two guards still stationed at the door. They were trading anxious looks as he approached them.   
  
"There is fire in the hold." he explained, trying to look quite worried and confused at the same time.   
  
Again they traded glances then looked at him. "You will watch the prisoner?" one inquired.   
  
Passepartout waved a hand in the direction of where his master lay. "He be going nowhere on his own, believe me."   
  
For a third time they exchanged glances. They also knew of the powder keg being held in the ship and what would happen should a fire be allowed to spread. They also knew the prisoner was in no shape to leave the bed let alone leave a ship at sea. The captain certainly wouldn't fault them for leaving him to help combat a threat to the entire safety of the ship.   
  
"The captain yelling for all body-abled men to help." Passepartout added as an incentive.   
  
And that was all they needed to hear. With a backward glance at the prisoner, who had not stirred at all since the afternoon before, they took off down the corridor and soon joined the last remnants of the crew heading down to the hold.   
  
Passepartout breathed a heavy sigh and hurried into the room.   
  
Mister Fogg was laying ghastly white against the blood-dried sheets. It seemed to the valet that his master's slender body had almost failed to gauntness in the matter of just a few hours. His breathing was once again less even, and now and then caught painfully in his chest. He glanced up sleepily as Passepartout knelt beside the bed.   
  
"Master..." He slipped an arm under Fogg's shoulders and lifted him up to a sitting position. "Master, you must be drinking this."   
  
He held the bottle up to his master's lips and Fogg obediently started to drink. He coughed up the first few sips, but then took a deep breath and finished the bottle. When he was finished Passepartout laid him back down for the few moments it would take for the elixir to start working and ran over to the trunk where he had stored his master's blood-stained clothes. He pulled the shirt out and brought it over to the bed. It would not do his master's condition any good to go outside in the chilly morning air with nothing on save his trousers.   
  
Fogg glanced at him as he knelt beside the bed, noticing the shirt in his hands. "Did you get them, Passepartout...?" he asked weakly.   
  
"Yes, master. I have all three."   
  
"Good. You've got to get them to Rebecca. She'll know what to do."   
  
Passepartout shook his head. "No, master. You giving them to Miss Rebecca. We leaving now."   
  
Fogg chuckled in the back of his throat. "Passepartout, I can't possibly..."   
  
The soft statement on the valet's face suddenly hardened as he glared at his master. "You telling Passepartout once that I can't not in your vocabulatory. We leaving now."   
  
Without waiting for his master's response, he slipped his arms under Fogg's shoulders and lifted him back up to a sitting position. Fogg winced at the pain in his side, but said nothing. The elixir was already coursing its way through his system, easing the pain and almost giving him the feeling of invulnerability that he knew could be useful or dangerous. Passepartout shoved one of his arms down the sleeve of the shirt he held and Fogg did his best to help him get the other one in. The movement hurt like h-ll as he felt the wound stretch under the rough dressing, but again he held in the groan.   
  
With the shirt on as best they could get it, Passepartout half-dragged, half carried his master off the bed and onto his own two feet. This time Fogg could not suppress the groan as the stitch in his side stretched beyond endurance and pain threatened to black him out. He fell heavy into Passepartout's arms, but the valet found the strength to keep them both on their feet. He took a deep breath and started dragging his master's near dead weight toward the door.   
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"Wha...is that smoke?" Verne exclaimed as he watched grey clouds billow out of the pilothouse. He had been watching the ship since early dawn for any sign of Passepartout or Fogg and this was the first show of activity he had seen that suggested the valet might be on time.   
  
Rebecca came up beside him with the other spyglass up to her eyes. "Yes, it would appear so." She smiled. Fire was always a good diversion when one was in a pinch. "Any sign of   
Passepartout....?" She was almost afraid to say her cousin's name for fear of jinxing the whole thing.   
  
Verne was about to answer in the negative when he caught sight of a figure in white hurrying away from the pilothouse. "There he is." he exclaimed excitedly.   
  
Rebecca felt her heart drop dramatically as she noticed he was alone. She felt Verne's hand on her arm and she dropped the glass to glance over at him. He tried a reassuring smile and gave her arm a squeeze. "We've got to trust Passepartout, Rebecca, or this isn't going to work."   
  
She returned a small smile of her own and nodded. "I know. It's just that I can't get my hopes up, Jules, until I see Phileas, there, in the flesh."   
  
"You will, Rebecca. Just give him a little more time."   
  
He gave her arm one last squeeze before returning his attention to the ship. Passepartout had disappeared again, presumably into the other building, and grey smoke could be seen now billowing out of the cargo hold doors.   
  
"It looks like he set the entire hold on fire." he remarked.   
  
"That would create a diversion." she agreed.   
  
She put the spyglass up to her eyes again and together they waited for what seemed an eternity before a figure dressed in white came shuffling out of the building, half-carrying another figure partially dressed in trousers and a billowing white shirt. Both figures glanced upward at the Aurora.   
  
Rebecca sagged against the window of the observation platform and placed a hand on the cool glass right where she saw her cousin's face. He was alive. "Phileas...." she whispered, a sudden lightness in her heart.   
  
"Rebecca," Verne's voice brought her back to reality and she straightened up. They were not safe yet. She glanced over at the young author and nodded.  
  
Marion was already racing down the stairs from the observation balcony as the two turned from the platform and started back toward the wench. She flashed Verne a smile as they passed each other and she continued on over to the steering globe. Verne had given her a quick lesson on the basics of steering the Aurora. All she would have to do was keep her steady in a hovering position as Rebecca went down in the wench to assist Passepartout. Verne was in charge of lowering and raising the wench and giving her direction as she flew.   
  
Rebecca had already shed her hoop skirt and basic frivolities for the comfort of her leather catsuit. Verne lifted the trapdoor in the bottom of the Aurora's floor and Rebecca hopped onto the flatboard wench. After she grabbed a hold of two of the ropes to steady herself Verne began to crank the handle that would begin the wench's descent.   
  
As the wench cleared the Aurora the wind began to whip Rebecca's hair around and she found it increasing difficult to see. She wrapped one arm around the rope and released the other to grab a hold of the tail that was her hair and she peered downward. She could see the ship now from beyond the Aurora, but could barely make out the two figures standing at the rail. She continued to hold on to the rope with one hand and her hair with the other as the Aurora slowly moved closer to the ship.  
  
At last she could see Phileas and Passepartout. Both their faces were glancing upward, watching her decent. She felt a tug at her heart and a smile spread across her face. They would be together soon, on the Aurora, and everything would be all right.  
  
And that was the last thought on her mind as a huge flash of light and a peal of thunder so loud she went instantly deaf engulfed her. The wench pitched wildly with the reverberation and suddenly went out from under her feet. She flailed out for the rope with her other hand, missed it completely, and then she was falling.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Fogg did his best to help Passepartout in whatever small way he could. As soon as they cleared the doorway and had started toward the back of the ship, he reached out with his hand and tried to steady himself on the side of the building. This lifted a great deal of the weight off the valet but still kept most of it off his wounded side as well. They hurried as quickly as they possibly could along the side to the back.   
  
Passepartout chanced a glance upward to see the bottom trap door of the Aurora fall open and the wench start it's descent. As it cleared the airship he could see she carried a passenger, red hair whipping around in the morning air. It was Miss Rebecca.   
  
"Miss Rebecca," he said to Mister Fogg, "she coming to assisticate."   
  
Fogg tried to reply, but it took all his energy just to remain on his feet. He reached out and grabbed the rail tightly with both hands, surprised to notice how badly they shook with the strain. He was beginning to feel faint and quite sick to his stomach. And as fortune would have it, the pain in his side was starting to return.   
  
Passepartout shielded his eyes as he watched the wench descend ever so slowly, wondering why Master Jules was not turning it any faster. Didn't he realize they had no time to waste? He took a deep breath to calm his ragged nerves. Of course Master Jules realized that. He was most definitely going as quickly as he could.   
  
"Not to worry, master," he said by way of convincing himself as well as Mister Fogg, "she is almost..."   
  
His last word was drowned out by an awful explosion directly behind them. A flash of light nearly blinded them and the resounding thunder threw both men into a word of silence. Then the deck canted.   
  
Passepartout braced against the roll of the ship and kept his footing. Fogg shouted a silent curse and lost his hold on the rail, falling to the deck and sliding across the smooth surface to fetch up against the far taffrail. The valet let out his own silent curse; but Fogg managed to haul himself upright. His pallor had returned for it had been only sheer willpower and determination that had gotten him to the poop in the first place.   
  
A second explosion rocked the ship and the deck tilted at an even greater angle. Passepartout himself staggered, arms flailing as he struggled to retain his balance. Fogg was flung hard against the rails, close to toppling over into the waves. Passepartout slithered across the deck to snatch a handful of his master's shirt and tried to drag him back to safety.   
  
Unfortunately a third explosion rocked the ship and this time Passepartout did lose his balance. His master's shirt was ripped from his grasp as the valet's feet went out from under him and he was slammed onto the poop deck. Fogg flailed out for the rail, missed completely, and went over.   
  
Passepartout scrambled to his feet on the heaving deck. "Master!"   
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"Jules!" came Marion's scream as an overwhelming bright light filled the Aurora's interior and the airship pitched wildly to the left. Her feet slipped out from under her on the polished deck and she found herself sliding helplessly across the floor, fetching up against the wall.   
  
Verne let out a cry himself as the Aurora bucked beneath his feet. He at least had the presence of mind to grab on tight to the wench's crank as it started to spin uncontrollably. He managed to stop it's downward spiral and it offered a steady handhold as the airship continued to be pitched from side to side with every new explosion.   
  
"Marion!" he yelled, hoping he could be heard above the din down below. "You've got to pull her back! Pull her back!"   
  
Marion barely heard him above the roar of the explosions, but she could see his hand motions and guess what he wanted her to do. He could not leave his station for fear of losing Rebecca, or worse yet, his grip on the crank and be helplessly tossed overboard in the next blast. She wanted neither. So she scrambled onto her hands and knees and crawled toward the steering globe.   
  
Holding onto the crank with one hand for leverage Verne slid himself closer to the hole in the floor and peered down below. The ship was still in one piece, relatively speaking, black smoke billowing from the entire mid-section of the cargo hold. He could now see orange-red flames flickering across the deck and more licking from the open doorways and portals. Of Passepartout and Fogg there was nothing to be seen. And then his eyes cast upon the wench, swaying empty in the wind.   
  
Rebecca was gone.   
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Passepartout hit the water just as the fourth explosion rocked the ship, pieces of timber and metal shards following after. He let the dive carry him downward for a short length until he got his bearings and was able to turn around, kicking hard for the surface. He broke the water's surface as pieces of the ship rained down around him. He continued to kick, turning this way and that in a near panic to locate Mister Fogg.   
  
"Master!" he screamed, finally able to hear his own voice, hoarse as it was from terror. How could he loose his master now after they had already been through so much. "Master, where are you?!"   
  
But the only thing he could see was the ship behind him and the flotsam and jetsam around him. In desperation he took a deep breath, ready to dive back into the water, when a tangle of auburn hair spread across the surface of the water before him like a sinewy spider's web. And a moment later Rebecca Fogg broke the surface, dragging up a sputtering Phileas Fogg.   
  
"Master!" Passepartout cried happily. "Miss Rebecca!"   
  
Rebecca gave him a small smile, her attention focused on keeping her cousin afloat. Fogg was near dead weight in her arms and his water-logged clothes were only making him heavier. Passepartout reached over and grabbed his master under the arm, taking some of the burden off Rebecca. Fogg leaned the back of his head on his cousin's shoulder, too exhausted to hold it up any longer. Rebecca reached up with her free hand and brushed his cheek.   
  
"Phileas, you must stay awake." she said, gently but firmly, her teeth chattering in the chilly morning air. She could feel his body shaking violently against hers, quite aware that hypothermia was still a viable threat for him as well as for her and Passepartout. They had to get out of the freezing water and quickly.   
  
"Master Jules has mo-ved the Aurora." Passepartout remarked, nodding his head toward the sky. "Farthered away."   
  
She half turned to follow his gaze. Marion and Verne had indeed moved the Aurora further away. Probably to get out of the updraft created by the explosions on the ship, which, thankfully, had ceased for the time being. The wench was being lowered to the surface of the water as they watched.   
  
"The stones, Passepartout..." Fogg whispered. "Do you still have them?"   
  
The valet nodded, feeling the stones still securely cradled in his apron pocket. "Yes, master, they are very safe. Now we must get you safe."   
  
"Very good idea, Passepartout..."   
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"Okay, Marion, level her off," Verne called out from where he lay on the floor peering through the spyglass at the three figures bobbing in the water a short distance from the smoldering ship. The explosions had stopped, thank God, and the air was still once again. "That's it. Right there. Now moved forward again, very slowly, until I tell you to stop."   
  
Marion nodded her head. She slowly rolled the globe forward, making sure to keep it level. Her hands were shaking so badly, though, she wasn't certain how steady she could keep the airship. But Verne didn't seem to notice so she figured she was doing all right.   
  
Verne had lowered the wench to about a foot or so above the water's surface and then locked it off. He wouldn't lower it to the surface until they were closer to the swimming figures. Marion's flying was smooth and he had been impressed that she had been able to pull them out of the updraft as quickly as she had. He found himself smiling despite himself as he thought of the young girl's courage and fortitude.   
  
The Aurora covered the distance to the swimming figures and Verne finally released the lock and slowly lowered the wench until it brushed the surface of the water. He locked it in place there until all three were on board. Rebecca struggled up first as Passepartout tried his best to keep Fogg's head above the surface of the water. Then while Passepartout lifted, Rebecca pulled, and Fogg strained, they managed to get him on. Lastly, Passepartout pulled himself up. Verne slammed the automatically recoil home and climbed up to his feet.   
  
"Are they all right?" Marion asked.   
  
"They're alive."   
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"We're almost there, Phileas." Rebecca whispered to her cousin as he laid cradled in her arms, shivering uncontrollably once again in the freezing air. He tried to respond, but his teeth were chattering so loudly that he couldn't get an intelligible word out.   
  
Passepartout, standing on the wench, and holding onto the ropes for dear life, glanced down at the two Foggs. Rebecca sat, one arm wrapped around a rope, the other around Fogg's waist, his head resting in the crook between her neck and shoulder. She was trembling, but he couldn't tell if it was from the cold or his master's own shivering. Fogg's complexion was almost green, his hair plastered to his face by sweat and water. His eyes were open, but unfocused. If it hadn't been for the violent tremors running through his body, Passepartout would have taken him for dead.   
  
The wench finally approached the Aurora and the valet could see Jules Verne and a beautiful young girl standing next to him, waiting anxiously. He sighed with relief, finally allowing himself to actually believe they had made it from hell and back. The valet stumbled up onto the deck of the airship and turned with Verne to lift Mister Fogg up out of Rebecca's arms.   
  
"We must getting him out of these wet clothes." Passepartout exclaimed.   
  
Rebecca climbed up to her own shaky feet and insisted on taking one of her cousin's arms. She looked at Verne and nodded toward the steering globe. "Jules, set a course for home."   
  
Fogg's head snapped up then, and his eyes flashed for a brief moment. "No, Cairo, Verne." he said in a voice that brooked no argument.   
  
Rebecca was certainly wont to try. She reached up with her free arm and took her cousin's face in her hand, forcing him to look at her. "Phileas, you need a doctor." she said slowly, firmly, as if speaking with a temperamental child. "The best doctor's are in London..."   
  
Fogg sighed, his eyes loosing the light they had once held. "Rebecca, I don't have the strength to argue. I'll be all right," he lied, he never felt worst than he did at that very moment, "Passepartout has gotten me this far and I know he'll do the best he can..."   
  
"Passepartout is not a doctor!" she exclaimed, a sob catching in her throat.   
  
Fogg felt his strength ebbing, saw darkness summoning him from the corner of his eye. Knew this time he could not resist her. "Rebecca, please....for just once in your life listen to what I am saying...."  
  
And that was it. Darkness snatched him by the hand and jerked him away.   
  
Passepartout shifted quickly as he felt his master's body go slack. He slid both arms under Fogg's shoulders, catching him as he slowly ebbed helplessly toward the floor. Both Rebecca and Verne jumped in, catching Fogg on either side, relieving the valet of carrying the burden all alone.   
  
"We must get him up stairs." Rebecca replied.   
  
Exhausted as he was, Passepartout had to agree, knowing that without his aid, the others would never make it up to his master's bedroom. While it was rather difficult maneuvering up the spiral staircase, all four managed somehow without slipping on the puddles of water that literally dripped from Fogg, Passepartout, and Rebecca. Then it was down the hallway, past several closed doors to a comfortable bedchamber near the end of the passage. Passepartout kicked the door open with the heel of his boot and they squeezed through the small door.   
  
The room was simply furnished. One narrow bed flanked by a nightstand and chest of drawers, one closet, and a shuttered window. A few tasteful works of art adorned the walls and one small Parisian carpet covered a portion of the floor.   
  
They sat Fogg on the edge of the bed and started to pull off his wet clothes. When they were down to just his trousers, Passepartout glanced over at Rebecca. She shook her head   
vehemently, scared to death that if she let Phileas out of her sight this would all turn out to be just a dream.   
  
"Miss, Rebecca, please." the valet begged, "Passepartout will need bandages and salve to re-dress Mister Fogg's wound."   
  
Marion took her gently by the shoulders and pulled her away from the bed. "He will need extra blankets as well, Rebecca," she said softly. "Help me gather them, won't you?"   
  
"I can't leave him..." Rebecca protested.   
  
Verne stood up to face her. "It's all right, Rebecca. He's here." Then he repeated himself slowly, word for word. "He is here. He's not going anywhere."   
  
Marion exerted a little extra force and managed to steer Rebecca towards the door and out into the corridor.   
  
Passepartout held his master while Verne pulled the rest of his clothes off and then they managed together to get him laid out on the bed. Passepartout pulled the bed covers up to his master's waist then began to work at the dressing he had applied the day before. As he lifted the last pad away, he was not prepared for what he saw.   
  
"Oh, gaw!" Verne chocked out, feeling his stomach lurch at the sight and smell of a wound gone terribly, terribly bad.   
  
The wound was worse today than it had been that first morning when he had stumbled upon the doctor and his master. Both the entry and exit wounds were discolored a dark brownish-red and the skin along his side between them was inflamed. The stench was almost unbearable. Passepartout ran a hand along the swollen area, his fingertips picking up a crackly sensation in the tissue from the poisonous gas beneath it. He reached over and felt his master's forehead. It was burning up once again with fever.   
  
"Passepartout...?" Verne asked, turning away, unable to look at the wound any longer.   
  
"Gangrene." was the valet's cold answer.   
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Rebecca did not take the news well at all. She fell to her knees beside the bed, grasping one of her cousin's cold hands in hers and bringing it up to her cheek, hoping her own warmth would bring life to his. His skin was moist and cold as she ran a finger along his cheek, his eyes deeply sunken beneath bruised-looking lids. Then for an instant she thought she saw a faint expression of pain across his features.   
  
With tears stinging behind her eyes, she squeezed the hand in hers and exclaimed, almost   
angrily, "Don't let go, Phileas! Don't you dare let go!"   
  
Again she thought she caught the faintest flicker of emotion in that still, pale face. Probably it was only a trick of the light.   
  
Taking a deep breath she looked up at Passepartout and Verne, who stood side by side on the other side of the bed, looking tired and very worried. "We are going to London." she said firmly. "There are doctor's there..."   
  
Passepartout dropped to his knees and the look on his face stopped her, her heart gone cold as the grave. "Miss Rebecca, it is bad. Very bad. London too far away."   
  
"We are not going to Cairo, Passepartout!" she exclaimed. "That ship is dead in the water. We have the stones already. The crown is useless..."   
  
He reached out and caught her free hand, holding it firmly between his two. "Count already using crown. Very bad modifiers. He using it to concord the world. Mister Fogg, he knows this, Miss Rebecca, that's why we go to Cairo."   
  
Verne came around to the other side of the bed and stooped down beside her. As Passepartout released his grasp on her hand, the young writer took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. Rebecca was wont to let her gaze turn from her cousin's sleeping face, but Verne was insistent that she met his gaze.   
  
"Rebecca," he said softly, fighting to keep his voice even, though it still trembled with emotion. "It was Phileas's wish that we finish what was started. What is happening is bigger than him, bigger than us, and he knew that. But if we don't stop Count Gregory now, before he gathers his armies, we'll be in the middle of a war that we might not win. Passepartout has told me that the Count has made modifications to the crown. He's able to control vast numbers of men and not just in the vicinity, but clear across the globe. Yes, the fact that we have intercepted the bloodstones puts a slight damper on his plans, but it doesn't defeat it."   
  
The tears were streaming down Rebecca's face now and she had no desire to stop them. "I don't care about all that, Jules...I can't just sit here and watch him die. I can't..."   
  
But he knew better. He knew she did care. Cared with a passion. And that's what was eating her up inside. He knew the only way to alleviate that pain was to show her she really had no choice. "Passepartout says the infection has spread too far, Rebecca. They would have to amputate. Do you really think Phileas would want to live like that?"   
  
Yes, she wanted to scream with all her heart. Yes, he would want to live. But she would only be fooling herself. Phileas would not have called that living. Spending the rest of his days confined to a bed. Unable to participate in the joys of life. No, he would have thought that a life worse than death and sooner or later would have taken his own life to spare himself and his friends the agony of watching his life slip slowly away.   
  
"Passepartout make him comfortable, Miss Rebecca." the valet replied slowly, pausing to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. He had cleaned and redressed the wound, applying some herbs in hopes of masking the foul odor. But that was all he could do with the limited amount of doctoring he knew and the medications he had on hand. He had seen his fare share of wounds gone gangrenous. And without immediate care and the right medicines they were, more often than not, mortal wounds.   
  
Rebecca turned away from Jules, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She took her cousin's hand in hers and reached up with the other to brush a few lank strands of hair back off his face, taking in the deepening hollows in his cheeks and at his temples, the pallid whiteness of his skin. It had only been a few short days since she had left him in that alley in London, but he seemed years older.   
  
The ache in her heart had returned, but only less so. She could feel his heart beating next to hers, struggling for every next beat, slowing in death. And no matter how hard she tried to bring the light, it would not shine. He was dying and there was not a d-mn thing she could do about it.   
  
Except fulfill his last wish. Find the Crown of Souls and bring it back to England along with the bloodstones.   
  
A wicked half-smile crossed her lips. Killing Count Gregory would be her gift to him.   



End file.
